


I like the way my heart is blooming (on and on, you’ll never be mine)

by intravenusann



Series: The Stripper AU [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bad Puns, Breakfast, Crossdressing, Domestic Violence, Drugs, F/M, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Parental Abuse, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Rimming, Sex Work, Shower Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-05 04:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 68,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: After a wild time at the strip club with Mr. Graves, the best night of Credence's life quickly turns into the worst when he tries to return to his family. If he doesn't go home to New York, where will he go? Will he ever see Mr. Graves again?





	1. Can't Feel My Face by The Weeknd

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the warnings. I promise, it gets better from here.

> _“And she’ll always get the best of me _
> 
> _The worst is yet to come” _
> 
> — The Weeknd, Can’t Feel My Face

Credence fumbles when he tries to get the keycard out of his wallet. A few dollar bills fall out of his pocket and he nearly falls over when he picks them up. So, this is what being drunk is like? It’s fun, but rather inconvenient. He’s glad he’ll have the rest of the night to himself.

Checking again that he hasn’t dropped anything else, Credence presses the keycard to the door and waits for the lock to open before pushing the door open with his shoulder.

The door swings open to a fully lit room, which makes Credence freeze. He turned the lights off when he left.

He steps into the room and sees Mary Lou first, standing in front of her bed with her arms crossed. Her hands are both tight fists. He looks down, but sees Chastity and Modesty sitting on his bed behind her.

“Where have you been?” Mary Lou asks.

She is already angry enough that no lie Credence could invent would placate her. He puts the keycard back into his wallet and tucks that into his pocket with the dollar bills.

“A bar,” he says, because she’ll know he was drinking. He just hopes she won’t be able to tell anything else. 

“A bar,” Mary Lou says, her voice hard and loud. “You left your sisters  _alone_ in a strange city to go drink alcohol.” 

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, his hands already on his belt buckle. He isn’t sorry. He is sometimes, when he says it to her, but he knows he has to say it regardless.

“This is not something you can apologize for, Credence,” she says. 

His neck hurts from his shoulders tensing up. He feels like he’s going to throw up, which would be his own fault from drinking. His mouth now tastes like stomach acid, wiping away the taste of Mr. Graves. He slips his belt free and he knows that he deserves this for what he did, everything that he did, but he hates it.

She steps closer to him when he holds out his belt, and he looks at her. Her expression is flat with anger, so that he can’t even tell how bad this is going to be. Usually he can tell.

“I knew it,” she says. “I just knew it. The first chance you get, of course you’d run off. I never should have brought you with us.”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he says. “Please, it was a mistake. I was wrong.”

Her nostrils flare when she leans in and takes the belt from him. He looks up, then, and sees her eyes widen. He watches the realization wash over her and her lips curl in disgust. Credence can smell alcohol and Mr. Graves’ cologne on himself; he knows Mary Lou smells it too.

Credence tastes acid on the back of his tongue. His hands shake when she takes the belt from him.

“I am not your Ma,” she says, all fury.

Credence winces before the blow. He holds out his shaking, numb hands. He reminds himself that he deserves this.

“Your mother,” Mary Lou says, “was a whore of a woman who didn’t want you, and I can see you’ve followed in her footsteps.”

Something burns between Credence’s lungs. It might be his heart, but he feels his mouth twist into something more angry than afraid.

“Shut up,” he says.

“You ungrateful, wretched boy,” Mary Lou says. “I tried, you know, I tried to keep you off of this path. The Lord knows that I have tried with you.”

He looks Mary Lou in the eye, though he keeps his head down. But he still doesn’t expect the blow until it comes. He expects her to strike his hands and arms. He flinches away from the movement, his hands coming up. The belt strikes his cheek hard enough that Credence tastes blood.

Credence touches his mouth and his fingers come back red.

Mary Lou raises the belt again.

That’s when Modesty starts to cry.

The copper taste of blood and the awful taste of bile have stripped anything good that Credence wanted to remember off his tongue.

When Mary Lou moves, so does Credence. His left hand catches her wrist and pushes back. He shoves her away from him. She stumbles and falls.

“Stop!” Modesty yells, her voice high and clear. “Please! Stop!”

Mary Lou struggles to her feet and snatches the belt from where it’s fallen on the floor.

Credence feels anger and cold horror. He wants to hit her, this woman who is not his mother and doesn’t want to be, this woman who hates him. He hates her too.

He lunges forward and grabs the belt. She hits him in the face with her fist. Credence sees bright white lights and black spots in his vision. But he has the belt now, and she doesn’t.

She steps back.

“Don’t you dare,” Mary Lou says.

“What?” Credence asks, with blood on his tongue. “Are you afraid of me, Ma?”

He looks at her, but if she feels fear then it looks the same as her anger always has.

“Get out of this room,” she says. “And do not come back here. You have chosen your path, Credence.”

“I have,” Credence says, then turns. His hands are shaking so hard it’s difficult to get the door open. But he does and stumbles out into the hall.

He has nothing, not even the things that he packed. When the door shuts behind him, Credence only goes a few feet up the hall before he stops. He puts his hand against the wall and then leans his body against it.

Slowly, he sinks to the floor. The tears come, then, hard enough that he worries he’ll be sick on the carpet.

From behind the door to the hotel room, he can hear Mary Lou’s raised voice. He hears Chastity as well, loud but indistinct. Modesty, he thinks, is still crying. Credence doesn’t know what to do. He’s shaking and crying on the floor, unable to do anything but that.

This seems to go on forever, tears drying on his cheeks only for more to come.

The door to the room opens, and Chastity and Modesty appear.

“Oh good,” Chastity says, “you didn’t go far.”

She’s holding Credence’s bag in her left hand, while she holds Modesty’s hand in her right.

“Credence,” Modesty says. “Please don’t go.”

Chastity sets his bag down beside him and he snatches it into his arms, clutching it to his chest.

“Maybe come back tomorrow evening and apologize,” Chastity says. “You know how she is, she doesn’t mean it.”

“She does,” Credence says. “She hates me and I hate her too.”

“You don’t mean that,” Chastity says. 

“I do,” Credence insists.

Chastity looks at him with the same hard, angry look that Mary Lou has. Really, she couldn’t look more different from the woman, but in all the ways that matter, Credence knows they’re much the same. 

“Fine,” she says.

“Modesty, say goodbye to your brother.”

Her eyes and the end of her nose are red from crying, and for a moment Credence does feel regret. Will Chastity protect her? Will Mary Lou show some scrap of mercy? But Credence thinks it’s a bit easier for the girls. He used to, when he was much younger, wish that he was a girl. He only made the mistake of saying it aloud the one time, and the feeling went away eventually.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” she says.

He sets his bag aside and moves to his knees, so that he can hug her properly. She kisses his cheek.

“Be good,” he tells her.

“I will,” Modesty says. “I promise.”

He stands up, then, and looks Chastity in the eye.

“Look out for her,” he says. “You know how Ma is.”

“Yes, Credence, I do know,” she says. Up close, Credence notices how her left cheek is much redder than the other. But it’s not as though she’s bleeding.

“She needs someone who’ll protect her from that,” Credence says.

“That would be you, if you just apologized,” Chastity says.

“I won’t,” he tells her.

“You don’t have anywhere to go,” Chastity says. “We’re all you have.”

She’s so much like Mary Lou that he hates her.

“The Lord will provide,” Credence says, and he does believe that. And if the Lord doesn’t? Then it’s just what he deserves.

He picks up his bag and walks away, down the hall. His mouth still tastes like blood and he can’t stop touching the broken skin on the inside of his cheek with the tip of his tongue. He’ll have bruises on his face tomorrow. 

Without anywhere to go, Credence takes the elevator to the lobby and finds the most out-of-the-way spot where he can sit.

He could call Tina, he thinks, for a moment. But why should she help him? Still, she knows the area at least. He is not absolutely without options.

Credence takes the charger out of his bag and finds an outlet to plug his phone into. Since he’s not going back to Mary Lou, he can use his phone however he pleases. He searches for places he might stay in the area. He buys a bottle of water at the lobby cafe. It’s overpriced, but he can refill it as much as he wants.

When Credence thinks of ways to get money, his first thought is going back to Magic. But it’s an idle fantasy. He knows what his naked body looks like, having lived in it all these years. And people frighten him, he knows. He prefers not to be looked at or spoken to or touched.

For a few hours, Credence dozes in the hotel lobby chair. He wakes up thirsty and with the side of his face throbbing. When he refills his plastic water bottle, he can see that his cheek is red and swollen already. By the end of the day, he’ll be black and blue.

He still doesn’t know what to do with himself.

In the end, he goes back to his seat in the lobby and counts his money. He could walk somewhere cheaper to get food, he thinks. It shouldn’t be as hot in the morning. He probably has enough to feed himself for a few days, if he’s careful about it.

He tucks the money into his wallet and his wallet into his pocket.

Across from the corner where Credence has settled, a man talking on his cellphone walks through the lobby. Credence dimly recognizes him as someone his mother spoke to yesterday. He looks away when the man looks at him.

But the man still walks over. From a distance, his suit is pale blue, but up close it’s actually stripes of blue and white on slightly crinkled fabric. Credence doesn’t find it a particularly compelling look, and the man is so pale and blond that it makes him more washed out. 

His hair is shaved on the sides, which is a very youthful look for someone who obviously has white amongst his blond hair. Maybe he shaved off the sides to hide that? 

“Son,” the man says, with his hands in his pockets. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

Credence doesn’t say anything, but the man sits beside him anyway.

“Gellert,” he says, offering Credence his hand. “I believe I sat in on your mother’s talk yesterday.”

Reluctantly, Credence puts his hand in the other man’s. The man grips him tight enough to hurt. 

“I don’t think I introduced myself then,” the man says.

“I’m Credence, sir,” he says, to win his hand back from the man’s grasp.

The man sits down in a chair not too far from Credence.

“Want to tell me why you’re here, alone, looking, I must say, pretty ragged?” the man asks.

Credence glances at him sidelong and then looks down at his shoes. 

“Well, alright,” the man says, putting his hands on his knees. “Then could I ask you to join me for breakfast? I’m just going to the hotel’s restaurant, but you look like you could use a bite.”

Reluctance caves under the weight of Credence’s hunger and frugality. He hasn’t had a meal since lunch yesterday. 

“Yes, sir,” Credence says. “I would like to join you.”

The man smiles at him without showing his teeth. He has a blond mustache, Credence notes. It reminds him that he’ll probably need to shower and shave at some point. He still smells like a bar.

Credence picks up his bag and follows the man across the hotel lobby to the restaurant. Breakfast, he sees, costs fifteen dollars for entrance, but the man pays for both of them. Credence wishes he weren’t still feeling sick to his stomach, because he doubts he can eat that much food. He should try, though, while he has the chance.

“Let’s sit here,” the man says, pulling the chair out at a table for only two. It’s very small, but Credence doesn’t object. He sets his bag down beside the round-backed chair. The upholstery has big white flowers on it, which Credence feels is a bad idea anywhere there’s food. It must be so difficult to keep clean.

The man sweeps his arm around and puts his hand against Credence’s back to lead him over to the buffet.

“I do love meeting new people at these sort of events,” the man tells him. “But I find not everyone wants to hear what I have to say. Very few people truly want to do the hard work of reaching out to others, of offering salvation to the worthy.”

Credence listens idly, feeling tense under the man’s hands.

“You seem like a man in need,” Gellert says. “I admit, your mother is… passionate. But she’s one of those people whose heart is already closed.”

This makes Credence blink.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that, I know she’s your mother,” Gellert says. “But I don’t think salvation, true salvation, is meant for that sort of person.”

Credence fights the urge to smile.

“Grab a plate, son,” he says, smiling at Credence without showing his teeth again.

There’s so much food: eggs in six varieties, greens, grits, pancakes, crepes, ham and bacon, even fried chicken. A lot of it turns Credence’s stomach, but he picks up some scrambled eggs and pancakes. He also takes some bread and a few pieces of fruit — two oranges and two bananas — that will keep well in his bag.

“I’m sure you can eat more than that,” Gellert says.

“I really don’t think so, sir,” Credence says.

Before they eat, Gellert asks him to join hands and pray. Credence isn’t used to this and has never liked it. Still, he lets Gellert hold his hands as he thanks God for the bounty before them. Credence does feel truly grateful and, when Gellert finishes, he smiles at the man.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, before he takes his hands back.

“You’re welcome, Credence.”

Gellert tells him that he’s been all over Europe and South America with his ministry. Credence tells him that he’s from New York and this is first time leaving the city.

“New York is a beautiful city,” Gellert says. “I’ve been there many times, there’s so much work that can be done there, so many people in need.”

When Credence has his mouth full of food, Gellert says, “You look like a young man in need.”

After he swallows, Credence looks at his fork for a while.

“I think I might be,” he admits.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” Gellert asks.

Credence looks away from the table, glancing to his left and then his right.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not comfortable talking about this,” he says. 

“What if we went somewhere more private?” Gellert asks.

“Don’t you have the conference to attend?” Credence asks.

“I think saving even one soul matters a bit more,” Gellert says. “Don’t you think that, Credence? Isn’t your soul worth that much?”

“No, sir,” Credence says.

Gellert smacks his hand down on the table and Credence jumps.

“Well, it is,” Gellert says, forcefully.

Shaken, Credence nods. “Okay.”

“When you finish breakfast, we’ll go upstairs to my room,” Gellert says. “I think there’s a lot that we can learn from each other.”

If Credence eats slower after that, it’s just because he’s nervous. But Gellert leaves a tip on the table and Credence tucks the fruit into the top of his bag, where it won’t get bruised.

“Come with me,” Gellert says, putting his hand on Credence’s back, close to his neck.

He doesn’t take his hands off of Credence even in the elevator up to his room. He puts his arm around Credence’s shoulders and though Gellert isn’t as attractive as, for instance, Mr. Graves, Credence still enjoys his touch. It’s awful, really, when the man is clearly devoted to God and only wants to help Credence. He shouldn’t be enjoying this feeling of being half-embraced.

Gellert’s room is many floors above the room he shared with Mary Lou. It’s also much, much bigger. There’s only one bed and a huge window that overlooks the city of Atlanta.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Gellert says, as Credence holds his bag in both hands.

As he sets his bag down near the door, Credence watches Gellert take off his jacket. He’s broad, but not as fit as Mr. Graves. He looks a bit older and his waistline is thicker. He’s not ugly, Credence thinks. He wishes that he didn’t look at men this way, but it seems that last night has made him even more fixated.

“You can take your jacket off,” Gellert says, so Credence does. He hangs it up on a hook near the door.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened between you and your mother?” Gellert asks him. “Here, you can sit on the bed.”

Credence sits with his arms stiff at his sides. He works his jaw slightly, trying to think of the words. Where should he begin?

“We fought,” Credence says.

“About what?” Gellert asks, looking at him. He sits close enough to reach out to Credence, but doesn’t touch him.

“I disobeyed her,” Credence admits. “I went… I went to a bar.”

He looks at Gellert.

“Sir, I know I shouldn’t tell anyone this, I know, but it was… a bar for men,” he says.

“To see other men,” Credence adds.

“A gay bar?” Gellert asks. “Credence, are you worried that you might be a homosexual?”

“I know that I am, sir,” Credence says. He swallows. It’s the first time he’s ever, ever admitted such a thing.

“And this is what you and your mother fought about?” Gellert asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. “She… hit me, so I shoved her. Then she told me to get out.”

“I think your anger is understandable, Credence,” the man says. “You’re facing a very difficult hurdle towards salvation, and I’m sure your mother thinks she’s doing the right thing. But you know, it only makes it harder for you. Don’t you think so?”

Credence looks at his shoes. “I think so.”

“Well, I agree,” Gellert says. 

“Look at me, Credence,” he says, reaching out and cupping the side of Credence’s face in one hand. He brings Credence’s face toward his and holds it in both hands.

Credence worries the man is going to kiss him.

“I think there’s something special about you,” Gellert says. “I think there’s something in you that wants to be saved.”

After Gellert lets him go, he invites Credence to read some scripture with him. It’s not anything from the New Testament, even, it’s the Second Book of Samuel. Gellert has a large, ornate Bible that Mary Lou would simply despise. Or, perhaps, envy? It has gold leaf along the edges and a heavily embossed leather cover.

Gellert holds it in his lap as he reads.

Credence listens to the sound of his voice.

After a few verses, Gellert says, “You can lay down if you want to. I don’t imagine you’ve had much sleep after all that happened to you.”

So Credence lays down and listens to Gellert read, “From the blood of the slain, from the flesh of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan did not turn back.”

“I grieve for you, Jonathan my brother, you were very dear to me,” Gellert reads, “Your love for me was wonderful, more wonderful than that of women.”

And he ends his reading with, “How the mighty have fallen! The weapons of war have perished!”

Then he talks, as Credence feels himself dozing off, about how men can love each other as David loved Jonathan, and that’s just as the Lord God wants things to be. Was Jonathan not the son of Saul, King of Israel? Was David not anointed by the Lord himself to rule his people?

“I’m boring you,” Gellert says. 

“No,” Credence insists, barely able to keep his eyes open. “No, not at all, sir.”

“Well, sleep,” Gellert says. “It’s fine.”

So Credence does.

When he wakes up, his tie is off of him and his shirt has been partly unbuttoned. He panics for a moment that his belt is off, but then he remembers that he never put it back on after snatching it back from Mary Lou. Credence gets off the bed and realizes his shoes and socks are off as well.

He walks around the room barefoot, finding a note on the desk that tells him to rest well. There are no other notes, but Credence checks his phone. He has no messages from his family or anyone else. It’s after three in the afternoon, so he’s slept the day away.

But he’s alone now and there’s a spacious bathroom attached to Gellert’s room.

Credence takes his bag into the bathroom with him and locks the door. He washes his face in the sink, first, and shaves with the razor in his bag. He has to look at himself and it’s an ugly sight, the side of his face striped with purple. His nose is bruised and he has half a black eye below his lower eyelid. 

He soaks a washcloth under cold water and holds it against his eye and nose after he’s done shaving. 

It helps, but Credence doesn’t really feel better until he looks away from his reflection. 

The water in the shower is hot enough to turn his skin red and the water pressure makes him feel scrubbed clean. Still, Credence rubs the bar of soap against the washcloth and scrubs himself down from his neck to his ankles. It feels like he’s washing away Mr. Graves’ touch and that makes him stand in the shower for a long time, just thinking.

He enjoyed it so much, even though he knew it was wrong. Even just thinking back on what he did, what he felt, makes Credence get half hard.

What sort of sin is masturbation, really, in comparison to sodomy? Credence thinks about it for barely a second before he’s remembering Mr. Graves’ hands on his body. His mouth pressed against Credence’s mouth, the taste of Credence on his tongue, the heat of Mr. Graves’ mouth on his cock. Credence tenses up thinking about how Mr. Graves put two fingers inside him.

It had felt so, so good.

Credence squeezes his hand tight around his cock and moves it fast. Hot water pours down his back as he leans over. When his legs start to shake, he braces himself with a hand against the shower wall so that he’s not in danger of falling over. He imagines that his hand is Mr. Graves’, though Mr. Graves touched him much more gently. His hands were a bit broader than Credence’s, with thicker fingers.

Credence goes tense thinking about Mr. Graves’ fingers.

He imagines Mr. Graves behind him, pressing his broad chest against Credence’s back and putting his cock between Credence’s thighs. 

Since Mr. Graves touched him the way that he did, Credence doesn’t think it would hurt to have a man inside him. His dick throbs and Credence makes a small sound that gets lost in the spray of the shower. 

He feels relaxed, afterward. 

The water is still hot, so Credence stays under the shower until his fingers prune up at the ends. He touches his lips a few times and remembers being kissed. He remembers having Mr. Graves’ cock in his mouth. 

He’d like to repent, yes, but he doesn’t think he can. Not while he’s still enjoying his sins.

If he stays here in Atlanta, Credence thinks, maybe he could see Mr. Graves — though it didn’t seem like Mr. Graves much wanted to see  _him_ again. Credence isn’t stupid. Part of why Mr. Graves agreed to give him a dance, which turned into so much more, was that Credence was from out of town and leaving soon. 

But maybe Mr. Graves would want to see him if Credence offered him more than just his own demands. It had been Mr. Graves doing everything for Credence’s pleasure, really. Of course Mr. Graves wouldn’t want to see him if he thought Credence only wanted someone who would do what he wanted. 

If Credence had another chance to see Mr. Graves, he’d find a way to offer the man what  _he_ wants instead. 

When he gets out of the shower, Credence feels hot all over and very clean. He uses his plastic bottle to drink some tap water and dresses in something that doesn’t still smell like alcohol and sweat.

He’s looking at job listings on his phone when the door to Gellert’s room opens.

“You’re still here,” the man says.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Should I go?”

Gellert smiles at him. “Oh no, please stay. We can have dinner together.”

Credence smiles back at Gellert, his mind still turning over memories of Mr. Graves.

“I think the room service menu is in the table beside you,” Gellert says. “Why don’t you pick something?”

Credence looks at the bedside table, which has two drawers. One has a Bible and a phone book inside, but the other has some paperwork about the hotel wifi and a menu.

Within two pages, Credence feels overwhelmed.

“This is all too expensive,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Gellert takes the thick menu from Credence’s lap.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll order for both of us.”

He picks up the phone and Credence listens to him order T-bone steaks and baked potatoes. 

“With a bottle of Moët,” Gellert says. “Yes, the Rosé if you have it. Bring it up around five.”

“What’s that?” Credence asks, after Gellert has hung up.

“What?” the man asks, fixing the cuffs of his jacket.

“Moët,” Credence says.

“Champagne,” Gellert says.

“Alcohol?” Credence asks, feeling nervous.

“Well,” Gellert says, “I got the impression that you enjoyed it.”

Shame pulls Credence’s throat shut. He looks down at his hands.

“Now, now, Credence,” Gellert says. “I had a very successful day and I have a sense that you and I are going to have a very successful night.”

“Really?” Credence says. “Is this about my salvation?”

“Oh, yes,” Gellert says. “Of course.”

He tells Credence about his day, how he presented about his missionary work in Haiti. He shows photos to Credence, where Gellert stands out in his light colored clothes with his pale skin and blond hair. He sits right against Credence’s side and holds his phone in front of him so that Credence has to lean towards him to see.

“It seems like you did a lot,” Credence says. “Especially for all those children.”

“I try,” Gellert says.

“Credence,” he says, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Have you thought at all about the scripture I read to you this morning?”

“Yes, sir,” Credence lies.

“And what are your thoughts?” Gellert asks.

“I think, perhaps, it’s an example of how men can love each other,” Credence says. “It’s not that God forbids relationships between men — Jonathan and David are not brothers, but also they are. Especially since Saul is the king and David is his successor in Jonathan’s place.”

It’s not that Credence really believes anything he says. He’s piecing together an answer he thinks Gellert wants to hear — from what he remembers Gellert saying before and what he knows.

“Do you really think their relationship was only brotherly?” Gellert asks.

Credence looks down.

“Yes,” he says, uncertainly.

“Well then, Credence,” Gellert says. “You just need to find someone who can be a brother to you.”

He puts his hand on Credence then, against the back of his neck. Strangely, Credence thinks of Mr. Graves. What he felt for the man was in no way brotherly. Credence has been a brother to Chastity and to Modesty, and, though he was a poor excuse for a brother, he still knows what that affection can be.

The thought of the two of them alone with Mary Lou makes Credence terribly sad all of a sudden. 

Gellert pulls him closer to him and Credence goes. He feels as though he is not within his body.

Who will protect Modesty when she makes simple, childish mistakes? Who will conceal Chastity’s small lies and transgressions? 

Maybe, Credence thinks, Mary Lou will not be so angry with either of them now that he’s out of the way.

He doubts it, but he is reaching for any comfort he can find. He should go back. He should just apologize and beg Mary Lou to take him back to New York with her. He would have to let her scream and wear out her anger on his skin. He could take it. He’s always been able to take it. 

Chastity couldn’t. He doesn’t think that Modesty could; she shouldn’t have to. Credence is supposed to protect her, as her brother.

When Credence was only fifteen, Mary Lou caught Chastity talking to a boy on her cellphone. Chastity had her arm in a sling for two weeks. It was only a dislocation. But after that, Chastity was much more careful. She didn’t stop, but she was quieter.

“You didn’t stop her,” Credence remembers her saying, as though Chastity had ever interceded on his behalf.

But Chastity was always agreeable and sweet in a way that Credence has never been. Modesty could be like that. She’s not very good about the rules, but she’s sweeter than Chastity could ever be.

Credence’s face throbs with pain. His hair moves at the back of his head and, only dimly, does he realize that Gellert is touching him.

He’s talking too, Credence realizes. It sounds like he’s very far away or speaking a foreign language. Credence would have to focus just to hear and understand him, and he just can’t do that right now.

He feels lost.

“Credence,” Gellert says, loud and sharp. He grips Credence’s neck and yanks him away from himself.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, automatically. He puts space between them even though it was Gellert who drew him close.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he says.

“Are you alright?” Gellert asks. “Were you even listening to me?”

“I have a headache,” Credence says, which is such a flimsy excuse that Mary Lou would never accept it.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Gellert says. He reaches out and touches Credence’s face. His fingers press against the bruise on his cheek. Credence winces.

“Let me get you something for that,” the man says, getting up from the bed. He disappears into the bathroom and returns to Credence with a pill in the palm of his hand and a glass of water.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

The pill is a bright orange-red between Credence’s fingers. He guesses it must be a name-brand drug, where he’s used to uncolored, bitter generics. He puts it on his tongue and washes it down.

“That should help,” Gellert says. “I hope.”

He smiles at Credence.

A knock at the door interrupts him and Credence hears a voice say, “Room service.”

Gellert goes and gets the food, so Credence gets to his feet.

“Where will we eat?” Credence asks.

“On the bed, of course,” Gellert says.

He wants to object, because beds are not for that sort of thing, but he goes along with what Gellert says. The man sets two trays down and busies himself with the champagne bottle. The pop startles Credence when he gets the cork out. Gellert pours two glasses and sets them beside the food.

“Shall we pray?” Gellert asks.

He sits on the bed beside Credence and takes both of his hands.

His prayers are the same as they were at breakfast: thankfulness for food, for blessings, for salvation.

“And Lord, thank you for delivering this young man to your grateful shepherd,” Gellert says.

His mouth tilts to one side when Credence looks at him.

“Amen,” he says.

“Amen,” Credence echoes.

Gellert pushes himself further toward the center of the bed and then stretches out. He takes his food and sits with his back against the pillows and headboard. Credence follows suit, though he folds his legs up to provide something of a table for his food.

“Thank you so much,” he says, looking over the rich food.

“You’re very welcome, Credence,” Gellert replies.

He takes a few bites of green beans and then of roasted potatoes before he cuts into the steak. 

“The champagne is excellent,” Gellert says. “You know it’s not a sin. Even Christ drank wine.”

Credence looks over at Gellert, who leans back against the pillows with his champagne glass in his hand. His stomach feels uneasy thinking about alcohol, but it’s only one glass.

Setting down his knife and fork, Credence picks up the glass. It’s cool to the touch and the champagne smells sweet, but tastes sour. The bubbles feel even stranger than soda on his tongue. He wrinkles his nose.

“Do you like it?” Gellert asks.

And Credence says he does, only so as to not offend the man.

He prefers the food and listens to Gellert talk. He drinks the champagne because it’s there and he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. But either it or the steak makes his stomach churn. He simply isn’t used to this lifestyle.

When he’s finished, Credence sets aside his tray and dishes and lies back. His head feels worse now than it did before.

He closes his eyes for a long moment to shake off the feeling.

When he opens them, Gellert looks down at him from very close. Credence sees that one of his eyes is a darker blue than the other and has a brown spot below the pupil. Credence stares at this spot as Gellert draws closer and closer.

He doesn’t move at all when Gellert touches his bruised face, though it hurts. The man holds his face and then puts his mouth against Credence’s lips.

If Credence closed his eyes, he could imagine that it was Mr. Graves.  

Gellert has a mustache which rubs against Credence’s upper lip.

Credence lifts his hand and his arm feels heavy. But he can still move it, so he pushes against Gellert’s shoulder and then struggles to sit up.

“What was that?” he asks.

“You don’t know?” Gellert asks. “You look like the sort of boy who knows.”

“I don’t!” he says, and his tongue feels strange in his mouth.

When he tries to get off the bed, Credence falls instead. But he gets to his feet from the floor.

“You put something in my drink,” he says. He should be more panicked and angry. He feels his dinner threatening to come back up. 

“I didn’t have to,” Gellert says. “You took it right from my hand.”

Credence blinks. He stumbles back.

He has had nightmares like this, drawn from Mary Lou’s warnings about drug dealers and the city and homosexuals. He should have known. He was expecting something like this last night, was willing to accept it if it happened. But not here. Not with this man.

Gellert rises from the bed and moves toward him, making Credence stagger backwards.

“Now, now, Credence,” Gellert says. “There’s no reason to be upset.”

Credence disagrees. He knows his things are already mostly in his bag, but he doesn’t know where his shoes are. His cellphone is in his pocket. The charger, he knows, is in his bag. He has his wallet. But where are his shoes?

“You don’t have to fret so much,” Gellert says. “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

But Credence can’t trust that. He knows, in his heart, that Mary Lou was right. She was always right. Evil is all around him. He has strayed from the righteous path and into the wilderness.

Gellert reaches out and grabs Credence by the arm. Credence tries to pull away, but can’t. Then Gellert moves his hands to Credence’s neck and the sides of his face. He looks him right in the eye.

“I think we both know what you want,” Gellert says. “What you really want.”

Credence’s breathing feels too slow, given how afraid he feels. He looks into Gellert’s mismatched eyes and feels the man’s breath against his lips. 

He doesn’t bother to say no, it seems useless. Credence takes a deep breath and considers his options. His limbs don’t feel like they quite belong to him. But his head feels heavy enough between Gellert’s hands and it’s not as though he can do any worse to his face than he already has. Thankfully, Gellert gives him plenty of time to think things over.

Credence takes another deep breath, tilting his head back as far as Gellert’s hands.

“Oh,” Gellert says. “I knew you would see reason, Credence.”

Credence brings his head down and throws himself at Gellert so that his skull hits the man square in his nose. The man lets Credence go and stumbles back, while Credence falls to his knees. He’s dizzy. The room spins around him, leaning one way and then the next.

He sees his shoes in the closet by the door.

He struggles up on his hands and knees, scrambling for his shoes.

Just as he gets hold of them, Gellert grabs him by the shoulder.

“You little bitch,” the man says. “After everything I did for you.”

He doesn’t get to say anything more, because Credence swings his arm around. The heel of his dress shoe, size 13, strikes Gellert in the jaw. The man reels back. 

Credence stuffs both shoes under his arm and lunges for his bag near the door. He hits the door handle with his elbow hard enough that he knows it will bruise.

It takes all of his effort to pull the door open so that Credence can throw himself out of the room.

He can’t run without stumbling, but he tries. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the elevators and, even then, he looks over his shoulder for Gellert to be following him like the Devil himself.

But the elevator doors open smoothly without a sign of the man.

Credence breathes out a prayer of true, true thanks to the Lord as he staggers into the elevator.

He sits down to put his shoes on, his whole body feeling like wet cement.

In the mirrored elevator doors, he sees the ugly bruises on his face. Now there’s blood on his forehead and around his nostrils.

The fear and dizziness do not pass. He stumbles through the lobby of the hotel feeling certain he will throw up on the patterned carpet. He makes it out the door, though. A man walking into the hotel looks at him with disgust as he vomits into the bushes.

His stomach empty, Credence sits down on the sidewalk outside the hotel and begins to cry.

He knows he can’t go to Mary Lou, not like this. She won’t help him. She would tell him it’s what he deserves, that he brought it on himself. He did, he knows. This time, he really did.

He stands outside the hotel, clutching his bag. He still has all the money he had before.

He still has Tina’s number.

Credence drops his bag and bends down to dig through it. He finds the napkin, still folded in his pants pocket. He unlocks his phone and types in the number, even though his hands are shaking and his vision blurs.

It rings and rings.

“Hello?” a voice says. 

“Hello,” Credence says. “Is this Tina? Tina Goldstein?”

“Yes,” Tina says.

Credence sighs. “This is Credence. I’m Credence Barebone, I’m sorry, I didn’t give you my full name before. I should have. I need… I need help.”

“What’s wrong?” Tina asks. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the hotel I was at before,” Credence says. “I… I don’t even know how to explain it. Could you just —”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Tina says. “Just stay put, Credence. I’ll come get you.”

A few feet from the hotel’s main entrance, Credence sits on the sidewalk crying into his knees. No one tries to speak to him, though it’s evening and the path is busy. People walk around him. He’s grateful for it. New York is the same way, a city too big for anyone to ever care if he sat down and sobbed. The best he might expect is that someone might try to mug him, but he has never had anything worth stealing. 

His phone rings, and he sees that over forty minutes have slid past him. He didn’t even notice.

“Credence?” Tina’s voice asks. “I’m just a couple minutes away. I’m sorry I took so long.”

“It’s fine,” Credence says. He starts wiping his face with his hands. 

He stands up, with great difficulty, and tries to brush dust and gravel off his clothes. His head throbs with ceaseless pain.

By the time Tina’s blue sedan pulls up in front of him, Credence feels like he’s going to fall over. Maybe he’ll just die.

“Oh my God, Credence,” Tina says. “Are you alright? Shit, that’s a stupid question.”

She gets out of the car and leaves the driver’s side door open. That’s a bad idea, Credence thinks. She puts an arm around him and scoops up his bag, helping him over to the passenger door of her car.

“What happened?” she asks. “This didn’t… No one from the club did this to you, did they?”

“No,” Credence says.

He feels like a bulging black plastic bag full of fetid, rotting garbage as he comes down hard on the passenger seat of Tina’s car. The seat is already pushed all the way back and his legs stretch out in front of him. Tina puts his bag in his lap and Credence pushes it off him. The weight on his stomach makes him nauseated.

Tina gets back into the car.

“Who hit you?” she asks.

“No one,” Credence says. 

He doesn’t look at her.

“I’m taking you to the police station,” she says. “You’ve got to report this.”

“No,” Credence says. He throws an arm out and reaches for her blindly.

Even moving his head hurts.

“No, please,” he says.

The sight of Tina’s face swims in his vision, but if he squints he thinks he can see tears in her eyes.

“Fine,” Tina says. “Then I’m taking you home with me.”

She moves her arm to shift gears and Credence’s hand falls away from her.

“Unless,” she says. “Do you need to go to the ER?”

“No,” Credence says. “Please. No doctors, no cops.”

It’s not the first time he’s said those words and they come to him easily.

“I just want you to know,” Tina says. “I don’t like this. But I… I’ll respect what you want.”

“Thank you,” Credence says.

He doesn’t black out on the ride, somehow. He feels like he’s on the edge of sleep, but it won’t just take him. Maybe he’s dying. He can feel his heart beating in his chest — every thump makes his head hurt.

They drive out of the city and keep going, until Credence sees trees and little houses down dead-end cul de sacs. There are a lot of trees in Atlanta, he thinks.

“Okay, we’re here,” Tina says. “Let me just… I’m going to call my sister and see if anyone’s home. I don’t know if I can get you out of the car by myself.”

Credence watches her from the corner of his eye.

“Hey Queenie,” she says. “Yeah, I’m outside the house now. Is Jacob home?”

Her face brightens up. “You’re both home? Wait, where is the car? Why is Newt driving your car, he’s not on the insurance — you know, it doesn’t matter. Look, Queenie, I need your help.”

She frowns, clearly taking a moment to listen to her sister on the other end of the line.

“It’s the guy I told you about, the one Newt also —” 

She stops.

“Yes, Queenie, I know.”

Tina frowns more, and Credence feels something cold and sinking in his chest.

“Look, he’s just really messed up right now,” Tina says. “I couldn’t just do  _nothing_.” 

Tina is still on the phone when the passenger-side door opens. Credence painfully moves his head and sees a round-faced man with a dark mustache.

“Whoa, buddy,” he says. “I’d hate to see how the other guy looks.”

Credence doesn’t know what that means and he tries to lean away when this man reaches for him.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he says. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, I’m just here cause Tina asked for some help. I’m a helpful guy.”

“Move, Jacob,” Tina says.

The man, who Credence guesses is Jacob, disappears from view. Tina’s there and Credence lets her grab him by the arm. Once again, he feels like an overstuffed bag of trash, but they get out of the car and Credence stumbles up onto the curb.

The house in front of him is brick and wood, with peeling paint on the shutters and a ragged chain-link fence. He leans on Tina and she puts her arm around his back.

“Oof,” she says, and he tries to apologize.

“Jacob,” she says, “can you get his bag?”

“And lock up?” Tina asks. Credence hears keys jingling, but he can’t follow what’s going on. He goes where Tina carries him, past the gate of the fence and eventually up two steps into the house.

“Lie down,” Tina says, and Credence falls onto the softest thing he’s ever felt. It’s squishy under his back and his head sinks into it.

When he looks, it’s just all pale pink, like flower blossoms.

“I’m worried someone drugged him,” Tina says.

“I think he’s got a concussion,” Jacob’s voice says from somewhere.

“Both,” Credence tells them.

“Great,” Tina says. “Thank you, Credence.”

She does not sound pleased. He doesn’t know whether to say “I’m sorry” or “You’re welcome.” He stays silent.

“I’m calling Newt,” she adds.

“He’s not a real doctor, Tina,” Jacob says.

“He’s cute,” Credence says, closing his eyes and leaning the less bruised side of his face against the squishy, pink couch. He feels a lot better now, actually.

Tina and Jacob keep talking and it’s hard to keep track of it all. 

“I’m calling him,” Tina says.

“I’m getting Queenie,” Jacob says. 

“What have you done now, Tina,” says a voice that must be Queenie.

“This is Credence,” Tina says.

“Oh no, what happened to him?”

“Newt, I brought Credence home — no, no, look I think he’s passing out on the couch.”

“I’m going to make dinner. He should probably eat something if he’s drugged.”

“He’s drugged?! Wait, what if it makes him sick? I’ll get water.”

“You’re absolutely right, doll, that’s a good idea.”

“Yours is too, honey, even if he doesn’t eat, Tina and Newt will want dinner.”

Credence feels like he’s sinking deeper and deeper into the couch, like he’s drowning in it. He lets it happen and doesn’t even struggle.

When he wakes up, Credence’s mouth still tastes like vomit and his tongue has dried out. He hardly wants to open his eyes. The lights are dim — then he sees that all the light in the room is actually coming through an open door. He makes himself sit up and get to his feet. He should find Tina and thank her. He needs to figure out what he’s going to do. He can hardly stay here.

“Oh, good,” Newt says when Credence walks into what he quickly realizes is a kitchen, “you’re awake.”

“Yes,” Credence says.

Sitting at a formica table under bright fluorescent lights, Newt looks nearly ordinary. His eyes are light, but not actually blue. He has more freckles than Credence remembers. He’s wearing a flannel shirt over a t-shirt that says something Credence can’t quite read.

“You should probably drink a bit of water,” Newt says, starting to get up.

“I can get it myself,” Credence says. “Thank you.”

“You’re a guest,” Newt says. “Also, while I don’t mean to remove your agency or demean you, I do think you should probably sit down. You look rather wretched.”

“Oh,” Credence says.

He sits at one of the four chairs at the formica table and a glass of water appears before him as well as a lump of something wrapped in a red-checkered dishrag. Credence peels back the cloth and sees a plastic bag full of ice cubes.

“For your face,” Newt says.

Credence blinks and picks it up. He puts the ice against his cheek and startles from the cold.

“There’s leftover lasagna,” Newt says. “And some eggplant parmesan, I think, and there’s pie and strudel, plus some day-old croissants. Do you like croissants, Credence?”

“I don’t know?” he says.

“These are a little stale,” Newt says. “But good with marmalade.”

He sits there and lets the cold soak into his face until it’s numb.

“I don’t know what kind of pie and strudel, actually,” Newt tells him. “But I’m sure there’s a variety.”

Credence blinks. “Why?”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Queenie and Jacob run a bakery.”

“They’ll probably be waking up soon, but I just got home. I had some experiments to check on tonight,” Newt adds.

He leans over the table. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about what happened, do you, Credence? Where you got those bruises?”

“No,” Credence says.

“Tell me, at least, was it because you came to the club, to Magic?” Newt asks.

He’s looking right at him and Credence meets his eyes, even though he doesn’t want to. They’re sort of green, he thinks, with bits of hazel that match his freckles. His hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in days.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“Alright,” Newt says. “No need to say more.”

So Credence doesn’t. He sips his water and holds the icepack against his face until it starts to melt in his hand. When it’s just a bag of water, he sets it down. 

“Good morning,” someone says.

Credence looks over to see a blonde woman in a pink fuzzy bathrobe and matching slippers.

“Hi Credence,” she says. “We didn’t really meet yesterday, but I’m Queenie.”

She smiles at him so brightly that Credence wishes he could make himself smile back.

“You look like you’ve had a pretty rough time,” she says. “Do you want something to eat? I can make French toast.”

When Credence doesn’t answer, Queenie’s smile turns into a smirk. “Well then, I’m making French toast anyway.”

“I’m going to make tea,” Newt says. “And coffee.”

“I’m sure Tina will just love you forever if you do that,” Queenie says.

“I can only hope so,” Newt says, but he ducks his head.

“Jacob too,” Queenie says, “but he already loves you forever.”

“What did I do?” the man asks. He’s mostly dressed, but wearing green fuzzy slippers with his dress pants and shirt. He puts an arm around Queenie and they kiss each other quickly on the mouth.

“You love Newt forever, don’t you, honey?” Queenie asks.

“Oh yeah, of course,” Jacob says. “If I didn’t, I would absolutely not have let him build a chicken coop in the backyard.”

“Yes, you would have,” Newt says. 

They own chickens? Credence thinks. They own chickens and a bakery. Credence remembers Tina saying that her sister was married and there are rings on Queenie and Jacob’s hands. He feels like he’s intruding.

Queenie sets a plate of French toast in front of him and takes his empty glass.

“Just water, honey?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. 

As it turns out, when Queenie cooks, she makes a prodigious amount of food. There’s multiple slices of French toast for all of them — plus some which she says are for Tina whenever she wakes up.

“So, Credence,” she says. “Tina was thinking you might be able to work at me and Jacob’s place, but I told her that takes, y’know, health department certificates and stuff. But now that you’re awake I can ask, would you like to?”

“I,” Credence starts. “Don’t know.”

“Well, what did you do before you ended up here?” Jacob asks.

Credence pokes his dry French toast with the tines of his fork.

“I worked for my mother,” he says. 

“Well, what did your mother do?” Jacob asks.

“She has a ministry,” Credence says. “I helped her spread the word with a website and other things.”

Queenie smiles at him and her eyebrows go up. “You can make websites?”

Credence shrugs.   


“It’s not very hard,” he says.

“Oh my God, don’t say that,” Queenie says, reaching out and tapping his arm. 

Credence flinches, but her fingers rest on his forearm all the same.

“Jacob and I can’t figure that stuff out at all,” she says. “We want one though, for the bakery.”

“Or just a Facebook,” Jacob says. “We sort of started one, but it’s…”

“It’s awful,” Newt says.

“Well, it wouldn’t be if you helped,” Queenie says, rolling her eyes at him.

“Yes, with all of that free time I have,” Newt says, openly sarcastic.

Queenie takes her hand away from Credence’s arm just to elbow Newt in the ribs.

They are nearly done with breakfast when Tina shuffles into the kitchen. She has a blue robe, but it hangs open so that Credence can see she’s wearing men’s boxer shorts as pants and her t-shirt advertises a synagogue softball tournament from 2004.

“Good morning, Teenie,” Queenie says. “You’re looking lovely today!”

Tina mumbles something and shuffles toward the coffee machine on the counter.

Newt gets up and fixes a plate of French toast, which Credence assumes is for her.

“Did you make coffee?” she asks him.

“Yes,” he says.

“I love you,” she murmurs, pouring herself a mug.

“I knew it,” Queenie says, softly.

If Credence stays very quiet, he feels like he could just disappear. He doesn’t feel like a part of this at all, like it’s something he’s watching on television but more intimate. He wonders what it would be like to make coffee for someone before they woke up and hear them say those words, or to wake up to a rich breakfast and fresh coffee. Not that Credence drinks coffee, but he could.

It’s a nice, but idle fantasy. He’s just not meant for that kind of thing. Men aren’t really, and he has yet to meet a woman he wanted to kiss. He stopped hoping that he would after Chastity got caught.

“I gotta take a shower, Teenie,” Queenie says. “You can have my chair.”

This puts Tina right in front of Credence. She squints at him.

“Good morning,” she says, blinking at him over her mug of coffee. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright,” Credence says.

“He’s gonna make us a website,” Queenie says. “Isn’t that great?”

She grins before she disappears out of the kitchen.

“Good,” Tina says. “That’s good.”

The more coffee Tina drinks, the wider she’s able to open her eyes. Credence thinks he would laugh about that, if he were that kind of person. He finishes his French toast instead and then sits at the table, waiting for everyone else to finish.

Across from him, Tina takes a deep breath and finally sets her coffee mug down.

“You can stay with us as long as you need to,” she says. “I don’t know if you were planning to go back to New York or —”

“No,” Credence says.

“Well,” Tina says. “Good.”

She nods her head. “Then you’ll stay here.”

“And we’ll pay you,” Jacob says. “For the website, that is. Don’t worry about paying to stay here. I mean, unless you run the water bill up all crazy.”

“I won’t,” Credence says.

“Alright then,” Jacob says. “You’re golden.”

“I’m going to make you feed the chickens,” Newt says.

“No,” Tina says immediately.

“Unless you don’t want to,” Newt says.

Credence still feels like nothing is quite real, so he says, “I think I’d like to feed chickens.”

“You say that now,” Tina says. “But you haven’t met the chickens.”

After breakfast, after Queenie and Jacob leave together in a white mini-van, Credence meets the chickens. They’re perfectly nice, he thinks, for chickens. Newt names all of them and talks to Credence with excited gestures about how he set up an automatic watering system and he’s working on an automatic feeder.

“They broke the last one,” he says, “and I just haven’t had the time to build a new one because the semester started up again.”

He does research and teaches at a university, though he doesn’t say which one and Credence doesn’t ask. Credence can only wonder why Newt also chooses to take his clothes off for money. But apparently Tina has a job, goes to classes, and also drives people around in whatever spare time she has. Newt is explaining all that when Tina comes out to the backyard in a navy blue suit. She looks very nice, Credence thinks.

“I have to head out, but I wanted to say goodbye before I left,” she says.

She gives Newt a hug and he kisses the top of her head when she rests it on his shoulder.

“Do you want a hug?” Tina asks, and Credence doesn’t realize she’s speaking to him for a moment.

“No, thank you,” he says.

“Okay, well, Newt can give you our wifi password,” she says. “Either of you can call me if you need a ride anywhere.”

“Thank you,” Newt says. “You are, as always, my most beautiful personal chauffeur.” 

“I’m your only chauffeur,” Tina says, looking at him sidelong. But she’s smiling.

“I’m actually going to head to bed now, I think,” Newt says. “I do actually need to sleep at some point.”

He gives Credence the wifi password and says, “Feel free. There are spare towels in the cupboard just outside the door.”

Credence finds a place to plug in his phone. He makes sure he has his wallet, his money, his ID. He feel some kind of relief that Mary Lou made him put his Social Security card, of all things, in his wallet to travel. He had been terrified he might lose his wallet or worse, but now it’s as though God knew that he would be set free.

Blessings are few and far between in Credence’s life, so this counts. He takes the fruit out of his bag and goes to put it in the kitchen. He organizes the few clothes he has and his small bag of toiletries. Back in New York City, he has a laptop computer which is not really his and his clothes and books, his winter coat and gloves. But it’s not anything Credence thinks he will miss. 

He showers and then puts back on the clothes he was wearing, because he only has one other shirt and pants. At least he brought a few extra pairs of underwear and socks. His better jacket still smells like Magic. Credence folds and refolds it, pressing the fabric to his nose.

The bathroom looks like it was probably built a few decades ago and has tarnished fixtures and a strange pink, yellow, and pale green pattern on the tile. The tub is a faded, dingy coral color with mildew along the edges.

If this weren’t a stranger’s house, Credence would clean it.

He thinks of Mary Lou’s demands that the floor be clean enough to eat off of — not that anyone would. He’d asked when he and Chastity were still very small. Chastity still liked to tell the story sometimes.

“Only animals eat off the floor.” She liked to repeat Mary Lou’s words and laugh.

Credence spends some time on his phone changing his email password and researching things about Atlanta. He won’t miss his belongings, but he can tell just from Googling things that he’s going to miss the subway.

After too long, he turns on the television just to drown out his own thoughts.


	2. SmartPhones by Trey Songz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence sets out to create a new life in Atlanta. There's pie, a boxing gym, and a pair of leggings. Also, the group chat is lit.

> _ "I don’t know what I’m gonna say _
> 
> _ But I’m gonna say _
> 
> _ Whatever it takes” _
> 
> — Trey Songz, SmartPhones

Around noon, Newt wakes up from only a few hours of sleep.

“Have you eaten already?” he asks. 

“No,” Credence says. 

“I’m going to warm up some of the lasagna,” Newt says. “Care to join me?”

Credence reaches for the remote and turns off the television first. Then he sets aside his phone.

“Alright,” he says.

They eat together and Newt doesn’t try to make conversation, which Credence finds calming.

“I’ll take care of the dishes,” Credence says, when he’s done.

It’s something that he can do, at least. 

The kitchen sink has calcium spots and soap scum all over the metal and there are ants marching along the windowsill outside, like an amassing army.

“Do you have a spare toothbrush?” Credence asks. “An old one.”

“Do you not have one?” Newt asks.

“No, I do,” Credence says. “I want an older one, not anything someone would put in their mouth anymore.”

Newt makes a face at Credence like he’s a particularly interesting puzzle.

“Yes, I believe so,” he says after a moment.

After Credence has rinsed and scrubbed the dishes and dried them with the dish cloth hanging near the refrigerator, Newt brings him a toothbrush. It’s discolored with age and wear, but perfect. 

“Thank you,” he says.

“I’m going to call Tina and get a ride to work,” Newt says. “Will you be alright in the house alone?”

“Yes,” Credence says.

“I don’t think we’ve got a fifth spare key, so I don’t know if you’ll be able to go anywhere,” Newt says. “That sounds awful, actually, why did I say that? Anyway, you can always call Tina if you need to go anywhere. We’ll get another a key made, if you’re staying.”

“I’ll be fine,” Credence says. He’s spent plenty of days locked in an apartment much smaller than this house. The worst days were probably when Chastity had her arm in the sling and Modesty was only two, but somehow capable of getting into everything. 

“Alright,” Newt says.

When Tina arrives, she breezes through the living room and says hello to Credence.

“Sorry I’m leaving again,” she says. “Queenie and Jacob should be home before we are.”

Credence nods.

After they’ve left, he goes to the bathroom and takes off his shirt. The cleaning products are where he expects them to be, under the bathroom sink. He pours a bit of bleach over the toothbrush and goes to work. It’s something to do and Credence does it with a sort of vicious fervor. He doesn’t think; he just cleans.

When he’s done, he runs the shower and rinses sweat and soap off himself.

He checks his phone and finds no messages or new emails. For a moment, he spitefully contemplates changing his mother’s email password. But she would be furious with him, maybe even furious enough to track him down. 

He looks at his phone in his hand. He’ll need a phone plan of his own as soon as possible, he thinks. He may need to get a new phone. He’s not sure what Mary Lou has put on this one to keep track of him, only that she said she has her ways.

Jacob and Queenie return home after seven, looked ragged.

Queenie collapses onto the very soft, very pink couch and asks, “How was your day, Credence?”

“Uneventful,” Credence says.

Jacob disappears down the hall to the bathroom, but stops short. “Holy shit, it smells like bleach all the way out here.”

Queenie makes a face that causes Credence to stop breathing. 

“Did you clean the bathroom?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, automatically.   
  
“No, no!” she says, putting her hands up. “Sorry, I just mean — you’re a guest here, you don’t have to go doing that sort of thing.”

“Holy shit!” Jacob says. “Queenie, you gotta see this!”

She leverages herself off the sofa and goes. 

Credence stands in the living room, feeling himself balance on the edge of terror.

“Oh my God!” Queenie says, loudly.

When she returns, she has her hands clutched over her face. She puts them down and stares at Credence.

“Do you want us to pay you? I feel like we should pay you,” she says. “That bathroom was — I’m sorry —  _so_ gross. And now, it’s like… Amazing.” 

“I’m pretty sure you could eat off the toilet seat,” Jacob says.

“Gross, sweetie,” Queenie says.

“Just saying,” Jacob responds.

Credence shakes himself. “You don’t have to pay me. I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Well, we appreciate having you here, so…” Jacob starts.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Queenie insists.

They look at each other across the living room.

“Well, honey, what’s your favorite kind of pie?” she asks. “We’ll make you one just for you.”

He blinks. “Uhm, I don’t know?”

Queenie and Jacob look at each other and smile. Trying to be polite, Credence smiles back slightly.

“Honey,” Queenie says. “If you can get this house looking even half decent, I swear I’ll help you figure out your favorite and you can stay here as long as it takes.”

“Yeah,” Jacob says. “You think if Tina and Newt moved out, we could give their room to Credence.”

“No, no, don’t do that,” Credence says, feeling guilty.

“We’re just kidding, Credence,” Queenie says. “You don’t gotta worry. Newt and Tina are family, duh.”

“And you are too, if you stick around here long enough,” Jacob tells him. “I mean, we kept Newt.”

It feels like a lie, but Credence doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want them to think he’s ungrateful.

The dinner that Jacob and Queenie make is one of the best things Credence has ever eaten in his life, and Queenie beams at him when he says as much.

When Tina and Newt arrive after nine, the first thing that Queenie says is, “Tina, we’re keeping him.”

Credence almost laughs.

The next day is Sunday and Credence wakes up early by habit. There’s no special commotion in the house and he waits until after breakfast to ask, “Do any of you go to church?”

Tina looks embarrassed, but she’s the only one.

“Well, Teenie and Jacob and I are Jewish,” Queenie says. “But not real committed about it, you know?”

“I eat bacon,” Jacob says. “Because it’s delicious.”

“I don’t really believe in God,” Newt says. 

Credence nods.

“Hey, you go to yoga on Sunday nights,” Tina says to Newt.

“That is… not anything like any church I have ever witnessed,” Newt says, inclining his head slightly.

“Yeah, but it’s relaxing and there’s prayers, right?” Tina says. She holds her hand in front of her mouth while she talks around her mouthful of food.

After she’s done eating, she explains to Credence, “The owners of Magic rent a studio weekly for this Yoga Ashram thing. Newt goes every week.”

“Not every week,” he says.

Credence knows that yoga is devil worship, or close to it. It’s gatherings of people who wear very little clothes and do God knows what. He’s heard there are orgies, which gives him a vivid mental image of Newt and Mr. Graves with their naked limbs entangled.

He swallows.

“You’re welcome to come, if you’d like,” Newt tells him.

“No, thank you,” Credence says, and his voice sounds unfortunately squeaky in his own ears.

Late that night, on the last day of the conference, Credence’s phone rings.

It’s Chastity. 

“Hello,” he says, half expecting to hear Mary Lou’s voice.

But it really is Chastity.

“We leave tomorrow at ten o’clock,” she says. “Do you have a way to get to the airport?”

“I’m not going,” Credence says.

“Don’t be stupid,” Chastity says. “We’re your family. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Credence says.

“Do you even have somewhere to stay?” Chastity asks, sounding angry with him. “Are you just sleeping on the street? You know, you could get killed doing that.”

“I’m fine,” Credence tells her.

“You can’t be fine,” she says. 

“Well,” he says, “I am.”

“Fine,” she says.

Silence falls and, for a moment, Credence thinks Chastity has hung up the phone. Then he hears her sniff.

“If you have an address where I could mail you your things,” she says. “I can do that when we get home. None of us have much use for your giant shoes.”

“Thank you,” Credence says. “I would greatly appreciate that, Chastity.”

“Yeah, well, I’d greatly appreciate it if you came home with us,” she says. “But I suppose… It was always more difficult for you.”

“Yes,” Credence says.

“I’ll let Modesty know that you won’t be joining us,” she says. “Goodbye Credence and God bless.”

“God bless,” Credence says.

He expected to cry or panic when this happened, this inevitable conversation. Instead, he feels very quiet inside. 

On Monday, there is breakfast and an invitation to see Queenie and Jacob’s bakery. 

He sits behind the counter and starts working on a simple Facebook page for the location. He shows Queenie how to create a second Instagram account just for the bakery and link it to Facebook.

“Try this,” Queenie says, and pops a heaping spoonful of something sticky-sweet in his mouth. It’s tart and sweet and gets between his teeth, turning his mouth bright red.

“Cherry,” she says, grinning. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he says.

He likes every pie she makes him try and there are  _many_. 

By the end of the week, Credence has a new SIM card in his cellphone. Kowalski Quality Baked Goods has a new set of social media accounts, which he has taught both Queenie and Jacob how to update. He has sent his new number to Chastity. His phone regularly buzzes with messages from the four people he now lives with.

“I think I’m actually watching my professor have a stroke about Donald Trump right now. I’ll let you know if we need to call an ambulance.”

“This knucklehead customer just called to say they want to change their order of twelve chocolate bourbon pecan pies to just regular pecan and now I’ve got enough pecan pie to choke a squirrel.”

“My titrations are taking approximately 6.8 million hours and the database keeps glitching on me. Could you feed the chickens in the morning? I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

“Lady just walked in carrying a bottle of vodka in a baby harness and bought one of the bourbon pies. Hope you have a good day, lady.”

“My last ride just said they have a dick appointment with Kylo Ren, like from Star Wars. I’m worried.”

“You cannot bring home any more sexually confused young men, Teenie, we only have one couch.”

Credence laughs at his phone and types out, “I’m not confused.”

“I can confirm this. Definitely not confused,” Newt replies to everyone.

Credence fumbles his phone onto the couch.

It does not help that Newt follows this a few hours later with an announcement: “Please do not be alarmed by any screaming you hear coming from the bathroom tonight. Tina will be assisting me in ripping out my body hair with hot wax, as is the monthly routine.”

At first, Credence types out, “That sounds painful.”

But he deletes it and says instead, “I’ll pray for you.”

“Omg was that a JOKE?” Queenie adds. “Did CREDENCE just make a JOKE?”

“I really will pray for him,” Credence replies. “But yes, I can tell jokes.”

Tina replies with a bunch of different crying emojis. 

Newt’s statement is no idle threat. He really does scream. Credence sits in the living room and peeks down the collar of his borrowed T-shirt. Would he look better or worse? He doesn’t know, but he still gets up off the couch and knocks on the bathroom door.

“Yes?” Newt’s voice asks.

“No, no, don’t move,” Tina’s voice follows.

“May I come in?” Credence asks.

“Neither of us is very decent,” Newt says. “But feel free.”

Credence nervously turns the doorknob and opens the door with his eyes squeezed shut. 

Newt has on boxers — turquoise and plaid — while Tina wears a pair of black boxers and a loose white undershirt. It’s not the total nudity that Credence expected. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the tub with his foot in Tina’s lap as she sits on the toilet. There’s a piece of cloth stuck to his leg. 

“Why do you do this?” Credence asks, shutting the door.

“I like swimming,” Newt says. “Oh, and stripping.”

As Credence watches, Tina counts off from three and then rips the cloth off Newt’s leg. He squeals and the skin on his leg is very red.

“But it hurts,” Credence says. 

“Not that bad actually,” Newt says. “All the ruckus is actually just me distracting myself.”

He smiles and Tina rolls her eyes.

“Quit wiggling,” she tells him. “I can’t believe you used to do this by yourself.”

“I assure you, it’s much more fun with a partner,” Newt says.

Tina’s mouth crinkles up as she laughs, her shoulders shaking. She grins at Newt and, once again, Credence feels as though he’s intruding.

“What about with an audience?” she asks, still smiling.

“Oh, I sort of hate having an audience, you know,” Newt says. “But Credence is different.”

“Actually,” Credence says.

He stops to swallow. “I was wondering if I could be a participant.”

Newt and Tina both look at him, surprised.

“Sure,” Tina says. “Why not?”

“Pull up a seat,” Newt says, tapping the edge of the bathtub beside him.

He doesn’t do much beside watch Newt try not to squirm as Tina finishes with the length of his leg. He’s very, very pink afterwards, which makes his freckles all stand out.

“Alright,” Newt says. “It can be Credence’s turn now.”

He takes a deep breath and then yanks his shirt off over his head. Actually, it’s possibly Tina’s shirt. Newt lent it to him, but it’s for a 5K at Coney Island.

“You’re sure?” Tina asks him as Newt lets himself slide down the edge of the tub and reclines in it.

He isn’t, but Credence still nods.

The wax is warm on his skin and Tina clearly knows what she’s doing. Her hands are steady. She presses a piece of cloth over the wax and pushes against Credence chest. 

“Deep breath in and then out,” she tells him. Then she counts: three, two, one.

He hadn’t noticed, but the actual trick of it is that she pulls on two. Credence inhales sharply through his nose, but it actually doesn’t hurt. It stings a bit, but it’s not that bad. Credence’s skin turns brilliantly red where the wax was.

“Want me to keep going?” Tina asks.

“Sure,” he says.

And much faster than Credence expects, he has a hairless chest.

“It makes you look dangerously young,” Newt says. 

“Do you think,” Credence starts to ask.

He shuts his mouth so quickly that his teeth click together.

“No idea,” Newt says, answering the question that Credence didn’t ask. “You could stop by and ask him yourself. I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

“I doubt it,” Credence says. His face is still a mottled yellow in most places and his black eye has drained down the side of his nose in his sleep. But it’s been two weeks now, so he expects he’ll look better soon.

The next night, Credence lies awake because his skin itches. He sees the shadow of someone walking through the living room at three in the morning and gets up to follow them out the door. He thinks it’s Tina or Newt.

In the light of the house’s security lamps and the street light on the corner, Credence sees Tina in another pair of boxers and a loose tanktop — the sort of thing he thinks of as an undershirt.

She jumps and turns around when he opens the door.

“Oh my God, Credence, you scared me,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine,” she says. “Can’t sleep?”

“No,” he says.

She sighs and he can see her naked shoulder blades. “Join the club.”

When she sits on the steps, Credence realizes that’s a literal invitation. He sits down beside her and lets his knees fold up nearly to his chest. She stretches her bare legs out into the grass.

“I’m going to hate myself tomorrow,” she says. “I’m already so tired.”

“You shouldn’t hate yourself,” Credence says. “You’re a good person, Tina.”

She looks at him and he can see the shadows like bruises under her eyes. “Thanks, Credence. So are you.”

He disagrees, but doesn’t say it aloud.

“Why did you come get me that night?” he asks.

Tina blinks at him and rubs her eyes. “What else was I supposed to do? I said I’d help you, didn’t I?”

Credence doesn’t know what to say to that, so he shuts his mouth.

“I wish I still smoked,” Tina says, as the silence stretches on. “Or something.”

“I just don’t know why you’d let a stranger stay in your house,” Credence says. He’s been thinking it for weeks now.

Tina looks at him and then away.

“I was a sophomore in college when my parents died,” she says. “I didn’t… I really didn’t know what I was doing and Queenie was still in high school. She ended up dropping out and getting her GED, and then she met Jacob while she was waitressing — you can see that worked out. But he was in the military and…”

Tina waves her hands in the air, as though she’s trying to conjure something out of thin air.

“For a while,” she says, after some silence, “I was just alone. In New York, yeah, in my home, but it wasn’t my home anymore and I was just alone. It took me like six years to graduate and then I still just… I don’t even know why I stayed in New York. I should have come here sooner, because home is really, for me, wherever Queenie is.”

Tina sighs. “I was so stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Credence says. “I think you’re very kind.”

“Kind ain’t the same as smart,” Tina tells him. “But thanks.”

She pulls her knees up and puts her bare feet on the steps, then folds herself up with her arms around her legs.

“I guess I just don’t like to see people hurt and alone,” she says. “And when I saw you the first time, that’s how you looked. I’m sorry.”

Credence nods. He hadn’t feel hurt or alone at the time, mostly he’d felt hot.

“Then you were from New York,” Tina says. “And I was just, I was back there all over again. I had to  _do_ something.” 

“Well, thank you,” Credence says. “I think that I owe you my life, actually. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Doesn’t really bear thinking about,” Tina says. “What happened is what happened.”

They sit outside until the sun starts to come up.

“Shit,” Tina says.

Credence yawns into his hand.

“You know, normally, when I feel that way — y’know, questioning why things are the way they are, and what did I do to deserve these good things in my life? Why have bad things happened?” Tina says. “I go to this gym in town and just punch stuff for an hour. I could take you, if you want?”

Credence can count the number of fights he’s been in on one hand and most of them occurred this month.

“Okay,” he says.

Some days, Credence stays at the house and cleans. Some days, he goes to the bakery and works the register and takes orders via Facebook and absolutely does not touch any of the pies unless he’s going to eat them.

Other days, he starts out feeding chickens and ends up at a humid gym with a concrete floor. Tina shows him how to tape his knuckles up so he doesn’t hurt himself. She shows him how to throw a punch at an inanimate object. She tries to have him throw a punch at her, but Credence refuses every time. 

There are other things in the gym, too: weights and machines and plenty of other people.   


“Who’s this?” a short, barrel-chested man asks Tina.

“Hey, Gnar,” she says. “This is Credence.”

The man has a nose that has been broken at least three times and ears that are bulbous and swollen. He looks up at Credence with a sneer.

“What’s he do?” Gnar asks.

“He works with computers,” Tina says for him. “He made a facebook and website for Queenie’s bakery.”

“Y’all got some fucking good pie there,” Gnar says. “Well then, I’ll give him a hundred to make my website not a godforsaken piece of shit.”

“Please,” Tina says. “No one is going to do that for a hundred dollars.”

“Two, then,” Gnar says.

“Four at least,” Tina says.

“Three,” Gnar says. “And he’s gonna do all the work right here so I know he’s doing it right.”

Tina looks at Credence.

“Okay,” he says.

Gnar is not the most unpleasant person he has ever worked for. 

When Credence gets home that day, there’s a large cardboard box in the living room, sent from an address in the Bronx. Inside it, Credence finds his winter coat, two pairs of shoes, a ziploc bag stuffed with socks and underwear, four shirts and four pairs of pants.

“Don’t you own any jeans?” Queenie asks.

“No,” Credence says.

There is also a card in Modesty’s round handwriting. It says, “Ma says you have made your choices, but I hope you will choose to visit me. Otherwise I will have to come visit you. I miss you very much. God bless, Modesty.”

For the first time, Credence regrets his decision to stay. Now, it is impossible to take back his actions. He would not, he thinks, actually take them back if he could. But he misses Modesty and he worries for her wellbeing.

In another week, Credence owns a pair of jeans and has begun to research how long it will take for him to establish Georgia residency and how much tuition would cost at the state college. First, of course, he would have to get in and he does not even have a bank account from which to write a check to pay the application fees.

He has a lot of things to figure out, still. And the longer he stays, the more Credence realizes he doesn’t know.

When he’s at Tina’s boxing gym, sitting in Gnar’s tiny closet of an office to use the man’s computer, Credence tries to focus on that work. Even if it’s boring, he’s getting paid when this is finished so he has to do his best.

Currently, his best is staring out the office door and checking his phone occasionally to read Newt and Jacob ribbing each other in the group chat.

In the gym, a tiny woman with her dark hair pulled into a messy bun keeps tossing a man who might be her husband onto a mat. Another, much larger man has been doing pull-ups for the longest time. He’s trying to film himself. Another couple has been cheering each other on through deadlifts, which look and sound painful.

Gnar has left a slim, bald-headed girl in charge while he steps out for a few hours.

Credence watches as two more people walk through the gym’s glass door and the girl in charge looks up. She goes over and Credence sees her embrace the woman, who has her hair totally covered in a wrap of cloth that holds close to her skull. Credence leans over in Gnar’s creaking office chair, which smells like sweat and rotting leather, so he can get a better look at the man. He wears grey shorts and a dark sweatshirt, which he pulls off to reveal a sleeveless shirt that bares half his chest or more.

Recognition hits Credence like a fist to the face.

He tries to pick his phone up and drops it, having to bend down and get it off the cement floor. The screen has a tiny hairline crack in the corner now, but Credence doesn’t care.

“Does Mr. Graves go to Tina’s gym,” he types.

He feels like he might throw up.

“He might,” Newt replies. 

“I know Picquery is really into MMA,” he adds.

“Life goals, wife goals,” Tina replies to him.

“Isn’t Mr. Graves like an old creep or something?” Jacob asks.

“Kind of,” Newt says. “But Credence likes him.”

Credence tries to remember how to breathe properly. He rolls the chair over slightly and stares out the door. 

“Something the matter?” the girl in charge asks him.

“No,” Credence says, trying to look around her.

She looks over her shoulder and Credence feels a cold wash of panic.

“Don’t!” he says.

The girl turns around and gives him a strange look, then she smiles.

“I’m Angela, by the way,” she says.

“Credence,” he tells her.

“Do you know Phina or Percy?” she asks him.

“Who?” Credence asks.

The girl laughs at him with her arms crossed over her chest, a mean sort of laugh. “Well, okay then, which one are you trying to check out? I can pass on your number, if you want.”

“No,” Credence says, feeling his eyes go wide. “No, please, just… ignore me.”

“Alright,” she says. “If that’s what you want.”

And then, miraculously, Angela does ignore him.

Credence tries to get back to work, creating a better front page for the gym’s website, which has sections for class schedules and membership fees and photo galleries from events. It’s sort of a hideous, broken mess and Gnar has been reluctant to say why. But he also changes his mind about Credence’s work constantly, so Credence can guess at what happened.

“You should go talk to him!” Queenie has added to the group chat.

Credence watches Mr. Graves and his friend warm up for a few minutes. He tells himself that he’ll focus on work when Mr. Graves is done jumping rope. Then he tells himself, after Mr. Graves is done in the weights section. Because, really, how is he supposed to focus when he can see Mr. Graves’ bare arms twenty feet away.

He smiles a lot at the woman he’s working out with. Compared to him, she’s slim and petite. Credence knows she’s beautiful and he feels a bit heartsick to see them laughing with one another. She yanks on the back of his shirt and Credence sees a big flash of Mr. Graves’ stomach and chest. It’s enough to make his cheeks flush.

The pair settles into the ring closest to the office. Credence doesn’t know if he’s being blessed or cursed, but he can actually see the sweat dripping down Mr. Graves’ skin and darkening his shirt.

“Don’t kick me in the face this time,” he tells his friend.

“That was three years ago, Perce,” the woman says. “You can forgive me any day now.”

“Oh, I forgive you,” he says. “I just can’t let you forget it.”

“Fuck off,” she tells him, swinging her foot up at his head.

He catches her shin against a giant padded mitt on his arm.

Credence likes what Tina has showed him. He thinks it’s weird, but it is fun. He doubts he’ll ever move from a punching bag to sparring, even though Tina offers. The woman looks like she’s putting in all her effort, but Mr. Graves doesn’t even look like he’s trying when he blocks her.

“I can’t believe you’re going to do cardio after this,” he says.

She huffs and puffs as she answers him, “It’s — the best way — to work out — or so I heard.”

He laughs as she punches at him.

When they finish with that, Mr. Graves uses the punching bag that’s even closer to the office door, though Credence has to scoot all the way to the other side of the tiny office to see him. He does, of course.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Credence types on his phone.

He’s watching Mr. Graves’ back muscles and calves.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Queenie asks.

After a while, Mr. Graves stops. He drinks some water and wipes his face and hair with a towel. His hair sticks up in twelve different directions, but that makes Credence smile. He feels warm all over out of simple lust. Then Mr. Graves walks away, out of Credence’s sight. 

He’s left feeling a little bereft, but mostly happy.

“No,” Credence types out to Queenie.

Someone stands in the doorway so that a shadow falls over Credence. He assumes it’s Angela until he looks up.

“Hello there,” Mr. Graves’ friend says. Credence recognizes her as the blonde woman from Magic.

The flush of warmth drains out of him all at once. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I thought you looked familiar,” she says.

She leans against the doorframe with her hand on her hip. “You know, he’s probably showering right now, if you wanted to catch him in a towel. I think he’d be happy to see you.”

“Please,” Credence says. “Don’t tell him I’m here.”

The woman raises an eyebrow at him.

“What are you doing back here anyway?” she asks, looking around the tiny office. “Other than being a voyeur.”

Credence swallows. He reaches out and grabs the desk to drag himself back behind it.

“I’m working,” he says.

“Working?” she asks, clearly thinking that he’s lying.

“I’m redoing the website for Gnar,” Credence says. “He’s the —”

“I know who he is, kid,” the woman says.

“I’m not a kid,” Credence says, glaring at the computer, which had gone into sleep mode.

“Really?” she asks. “How old are you again?”

“Twenty one,” Credence answers.

She laughs at him. “You know, Percy’s exactly twice your age.”

He refuses to look at her.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” she says. “He forgot to tell you his real name.”

She walks into the office and grabs a pen and a pad of yellow sticky notes off the desk. Startled, Credence rolls back slightly.

“Here’s  _Percival_ ’s number,” she says, writing something down on a note and sticking it to the desk. “Call him sometime. Or stop by the club! I think he’d be thrilled to see you.” 

Credence stares at the bright yellow square of paper. He looks up at this woman, Mr. Graves’ friend, and she smiles at him broadly.

“Goodbye Credence,” she says, turning away. “Have yourself a pleasant afternoon.”

His hands shake as he tries to type out what happened.

“Are you doing any actual work?” Tina asks. “I can come pick you up, if you want. I’m free.”

“Yes,” Credence types out.

Then, “Please.”

About twenty minutes later, Tina comes into the gym dressed in her nice work clothes. Credence is wearing a t-shirt with a pair of khaki slacks, since he can’t quite get used to wearing jeans outside the house. They’re fine for feeding chickens and watching television, but it’s strange anywhere else. He feels inappropriately under-dressed.

“We need to buy you some shorts,” Tina says. “It’s so damn hot right now.”

Credence thinks about Mr. Graves’ bare calves under the hem of his loose, grey shorts. He shuts his eyes and swallows.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Well I’m melting,” Tina says. “This place doesn’t even have AC, come on.”

She takes her navy blue blazer off in the car and tosses it on the empty back seat. Her bare shoulders have a couple of dark freckles, but they’re nothing like Newt’s.

“So,” she says. “Wanna get something to eat?”

“Can we go to the place with the juice?” Credence asks.

They go to the place with the juice, even though it’s a bit of a drive.

“Hey, that’s the place where Newt does yoga,” Tina says, pointing left out her window.

Credence leans over and gazes at an ordinary little building in a strip mall. It is not what he had imagined and the sign blurs in his vision as the light turns green and Tina hits the gas.

The place with the juice is a bright little corner shop in another shopping structure downtown, with smooth white counters and lots of wood. The counter where Credence holds seats for him and Tina has a tiny succulent in a planter box full of gravel. Its little leaves look so fat that Credence wants to pinch them. But that would be cruel, he supposes. It could hurt the plant.

He keeps his hands to himself.

Technically, the cafe has a name, but it’s a terrible pun and he and Tina have mutually agreed to never call it that. Newt loves it. He’s the one who introduced Tina to the place with the juice.

Tina comes back balancing two drinks and a plate with cupcakes on it.

“What’s the occasion?” Credence asks.

“They’re chocolate,” Tina says. “That’s the occasion.”

Credence gets a big smoothie that’s a sort of pale orange.

“What happened exactly?” Tina asks. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but I’m way too curious.”

She uses her index finger to fold her straw into her mouth and starts to drink her own smoothie, which is very pink.

“He was just,” Credence gestures at the fat, little succulent, “there.”

“He never noticed I was there,” Credence adds. “I think I preferred that. I felt kind of disappointed when he walked away, but I didn’t really want him to see me.”

“Why not?” Tina asks.

Credence looks at her.

“You look nice today, Credence,” she tells him.

He doesn’t believe her, but takes a long swallow of his smoothie rather than reply.

“What would I say to him?” Credence asks.

Tina shrugs. “I’m awful at this kind of thing, actually. Queenie’s the one who’s really good at people.”

Credence frowns. He is not any good at people, but this is somehow easier to talk about with Tina. He never had to fill her in on any details. Newt asked if he could tell her and then he did, and then she just knew without Credence having to explain himself.

“Maybe I’m assuming things,” Tina says, picking up her cupcake. “But it seems like you want to date him, right? It’s not just the muscles.”

He shrugs. 

When Tina takes a bite out of her cupcake, she gets vanilla frosting and chocolate sauce on her nose. She wipes it off and swears just a little, softly.

Credence looks at his cupcake skeptically, wondering how he can avoid the same fate.

“I’d like to see him again,” Credence says. 

“But would you just want to see him at the club?” she asks. “Or do you want to have coffee and dinner?”

He picks up his cupcake and thinks about it. He really doesn’t know anything about Mr. Graves, but he’s doubtlessly interesting. 

“I’d bore him, I think,” Credence says. He tries to aim the pile of frosting on the cupcake away from his nose, but it doesn’t work. The cupcake, however, is very, very good. It’s soft as a cloud and richly chocolatey. The frosting smells nice at least, even if he ends up wiping it off his face after each bite.

“Credence, you’re not boring,” Tina says. “You’re like — okay, I can’t reference a movie ‘cause you haven’t seen any, but you have layers. Every time I talk to you, I learn something new.”

“Even now?” Credence asks between cupcake bites.

“I learned that Mr. Graves is unobservant,” Tina says, “and that even the cleanest person I have ever met gets frosting on his face when he eats a cupcake.”

Credence sighs. “Fine.”

“But seriously,” she says. “You’ve lived a life that I’m sure is totally different from Mr. Graves’. Also, if he thinks you’re cute, he’d probably listen intently while you read him the phonebook.”

Credence snorts. “Would you listen to Newt read the phonebook?”

“Are you joking? Of course I would,” Tina says. “Have you heard his accent?”

Credence feels his cheeks pinch up from smiling. A part of him, which is really a cruel part, wishes that Tina was his older sister. He has an older sister. But he doesn’t know anymore if he loves Chastity, though he knows he ought to. He does hope that she’s safe, if that’s love.

“And maybe Mr. Graves is actually boring,” Tina says.

“No way,” Credence says. “It’s not possible.”

“See?” she says. “Maybe he thinks that way about you.”

He shrugs his shoulders and finishes off the last of the cupcake. His citrus and tropical fruit smoothie tastes so much more sour for having had sweets. He enjoys the contrast.

“Who’s the other owner of the club?” Credence asks. “The woman.”

“Seraphina,” Tina says. “Seraphina Picquery. Isn’t that just the coolest name you’ve ever heard?”

“Tina is a cool name, I think,” Credence says.

Tina rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Do you want to go back?”

“Maybe,” Credence says. “I’m not sure.”

“We could make it, like, a group thing,” she says. “Then you won’t be all alone.”

“I would be fine going alone,” Credence says. “If I go.”

“But you don’t have to,” Tina says. “It’s more fun with friends. I’m sure we can scrape together the free time and some cash.”

She slurps at the end of her smoothie and Credence tries not to think too hard about how much he wants to see Mr. Graves again.

“His name is Percival,” Credence says. “That’s what she said, what Seraphina said. She called him Percy.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” Tina says.

“I can’t believe she gave me his phone number,” Credence says.

Tina’s eyebrows go up. She sets her empty plastic cup down on the counter.

“Are you going to call him?” she asks.

Credence looks at her and shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’d say.”

“You could text him,” Tina says. “Just like, let him know you’re still in town.”

“How do I explain how I got his number?” Credence asks.

“Tell him the truth,” Tina says. “Just tell him. It’s not any weirder than the rest of it. Life is weird.”

Credence looks at her in silence until Tina sighs and looks away.

He takes longer with his smoothie, so they linger in the cafe and Tina tells him about her day.

“We’re going through a lot of legal stuff,” she says. “I’m really grateful for it, actually, because I think you’ll probably have to get a copy of your birth certificate for some things and now I know that at least.”

He doesn’t know how he could be so lucky, for his life to collide with hers. But he’s grateful. It feels a little bit like an act of God’s grace sometimes. He just can’t believe how good his life can be. Credence finishes his smoothie and smiles a little at the succulent on the counter.

“Ready to head home?” Tina asks.

“Yes,” he tells her, feeling warm even under the aggressive air-conditioning at the place with the juice.

“See you at dinner,” she tells him, parking outside the gate to the house. “Don’t think I’m going to forget that you should talk to Mr. Graves!”

He does not feel particularly pressured about the issue as he opens the gate and heads into an empty house. The afternoon, like almost every day since he found himself in Atlanta, is Credence’s to do with whatever he pleases.

He watches the group chat move onto other topics that aren’t his encounter with Mr. Graves. He doesn’t tell them about the woman or the phone number, which he has folded now in his wallet behind his New York state ID.

The living room where he sleeps has food crumbs in the carpet and it’s so hot and humid that Credence’s hair curls. The reasonable thing, then, apparently is to vacuum the whole house in nothing but his underwear — it’s too hot for anything else. He turns the television on to a pop music channel and turns the volume up so he can hear catchy songs he doesn’t really know and incredibly loud, annoying advertisements geared toward middle-aged women. This isn’t the first time he left the television blaring while he cleaned and he’s already memorized three different yogurt ads.

Afterward, he showers so that by the time Queenie and Jacob arrive home from the bakery the house is clean and so is he.

Queenie kisses him on the cheek. “How was your day, sugar? I know you saw your Prince Charming.”

“Good,” Credence says. 

“Have you figured out if you’re gonna go after him yet?” she asks. “Sorry, this is just exciting for me. I’m an old married woman now and the spark is gone.”

“Hey!” Jacob says from the kitchen. He sticks his head out of the doorway and looks at Queenie.

“You don’t mean that, do you, honey?” he asks.

“Oh no!” Queenie says. “Not even a little. I’m just teasing Credence.”

She hurries over to him and they kiss. Credence wonders what that would be like, to have someone everyday to kiss and touch and laugh with. Queenie and Jacob move around the kitchen and don’t even have to look at each other to know what the other one is doing or where their hands are. They speak in half sentences.

“Can you?”

“Got it, babe.”

“Oh, let me.”

“Here, honey.”

Credence sits at the table just to watch them. 

Before dinner, the front door opens and Tina and Newt stumble through it.

“I’m going to shower!” Newt announces very loudly and then disappears.

Tina comes into the kitchen, hangs up her keys, and puts her head down on the kitchen table right by Credence’s elbow.

“Everything alright, Teenie?” Queenie asks.

Tina raises her arm and gives her sister a thumbs-up.

A short while later, Newt reappears.

“I got lizard blood in my mouth today,” he tells everyone.

“Gross,” Queenie says. “Thanks for sharing.”

Tina sits up suddenly, her hands against the kitchen table. “He didn’t share that with me until  _after_ I kissed him in the car this afternoon.” 

“It slipped my mind,” Newt says. “I was happy to see you.”

“You were still covered in blood!” Tina says. “It scared the hell out of me!”

She gets up from the table. “I’m going to brush my teeth forever.”

“I’m sorry, love, it really was a simple oversight on my part,” Newt says.

“I know,” Tina says. “And I love you, I do, but — seriously, Newt,  _gross_.” 

“Lizard blood?” Credence asks.

“I got to play with a bunch of horned lizards today,” Newt tells him excitedly. “They’re from areas further west, Texas and Arizona and Mexico. Some species, this species specifically, shoot blood from their sinuses when they feel threatened. And, of course, they’re very small and I am very large, so they were understandably threatened by my handling them. It really wasn’t my intention.”

“Sinuses,” Credence repeats. “Like a nosebleed?”

“Oh no,” Newt says. “Their eyes.”

“An eyebleed?” Newt tests the phrase. Credence feels a nauseated sympathy for Tina.

At least dinner is delicious.

“I was thinking,” Tina says, out of the blue, “maybe we could all go to Magic together with Credence.”

“Wait, why?” Jacob asks, at the same time that Queenie’s face lights up.

“Tuesday!” she says. “Let’s go on Tuesday!”

“Ah,” Newt says. “I haven’t gone to a drag night in ages.”

“It’s my favorite night!” Queenie says, grinning.

“It’s pretty fun,” Jacob says, smiling at her.

“We can all dress up!” she says. “And there’ll be so many people there. It’s always packed, right, Newt?”

“It’s fairly popular, I believe,” he says. “I really haven’t been to one in over a year, but it’s Magic’s big money maker — or so Picquery claims.”

“Oh my gosh, it’s just so fun,” Queenie says. “Credence, I think you’ll really love it. I’ve seen you turning the radio up at the bakery and this is  _all_ about the music. Well, okay, and makeup and shoes and stuff.” 

Credence has a lot of practice in pushing his food around his plate and looking not guilty.

“Do you know what drag is?” Tina asks him in a whisper.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I do use the Internet.”

“We could also go a different night,” Tina says.

“But this is the most fun night!” Queenie insists.

Really, Credence doesn’t want to go at all, but that might not be an option. 

“If you say so,” he says.

“You’ll really like it,” Queenie says. “We can go shopping for you on Sunday. You don’t have to, y’know, wear a dress, but you should still dress up.”

“Are you going to dress up?” Credence asks.

“Oh yeah!” Queenie says. “Duh. But Jacob and I are boring, straight marrieds, as you know, so I wear the dress and he wears the tux.”

Credence doesn’t think that Queenie and Jacob are boring at all, and the way they smile at each other until Queenie’s nose wrinkles slightly from how happy she is proves that she doesn’t think so either.

“Tina and I are the, well, unmarried, interesting queers, then?” Newt says.

“I wear the tux,” Tina says. “He wears the dress.”

It’s surprisingly easy to imagine that, Credence finds.

He makes it through the rest of the week trying not to think too much about Mr. Graves or the upcoming Tuesday. Unless, of course, he’s home alone or in the shower. 

He thinks about Mr. Graves almost exclusively in the shower. Now, he thinks about him in the clothes he wore to the gym as well as his suit from the club. Credence imagines him with his hair slicked back or with it falling loose in his eyes. He thinks about how much of him was covered by a collared shirt and vest, sleek pants, and nice shoes. Then Credence thinks about how much of Mr. Graves wasn’t covered by his loose, grey shorts.

But if he thinks about any of that outside the shower, Credence ends up in trouble. 

It’s hot in Atlanta, but Credence really can’t justify showering more than three times a day. Even if he’s quick, it wastes water.

Also, thinking about Tuesday just frightens him. He’s not sure how he feels about any of it. Newt and Queenie seem incredibly excited. Even Tina and Jacob have joined them, though Credence wonders if it’s not just because they enjoy seeing how happy it makes the people they love. Credence has no such reasons. He feels queasy when he thinks about seeing Mr. Graves again. And the thought of wearing women’s clothing? Makeup? He doesn’t know what to think.

Chastity had always been forbidden from wearing makeup, though Credence knew Mary Lou used it herself. 

“It’s only vanity,” Chastity would repeat their mother’s words. “Women wear it to arouse men, like whores.”

As for men wearing it? Mary Lou felt that sort of thing was a slap in God’s face. 

In New York, it was nearly impossible to miss people who lived as aberrantly as that. 

“This sort of thing,” Mary Lou would explain, “only exists because those people have turned away from God. They let sin into their lives because they have no one to tell them the truth, or else they refuse to hear it. Do you want to be like that?”

Credence had always said he didn’t. But he’d never been totally sure. Mostly, he didn’t want to get hit.

Maybe Chastity was the same way. She had certainly talked to men despite Mary Lou’s warnings. 

Credence doesn’t want to arouse men indiscriminately, of course, that would be terrifying. But he wouldn’t mind arousing Mr. Graves. Does Mr. Graves find makeup arousing?

“Does Mr. Graves work on Tuesdays?” Credence asks Newt, who would know.

“He works every night of the week,” Newt tells him. “He owns the place, so he and Picquery are always there.”

“Oh,” Credence says.

“He doesn’t wear a dress, if that’s what you mean to ask,” Newt says. “He pretty much dresses the same way you saw him every day — a suit and tie.”

On Sunday, Queenie and Newt — with Tina driving them — take Credence to Target.

“All my makeup has expired,” Newt says.

“You need something to wear,” Queenie says.

“If you want to go home, just let me know and we’ll ditch these two,” Tina says.

That makes Credence smile a little. He pushes the shopping cart through the toiletries and makeup section while Newt and Queenie discuss lipstick colors that would match Credence’s complexion. Tina disappears for a moment and comes back with armfuls of shampoo.

“It’s on sale,” she says.

They get groceries and more soap, a few bottles of generic ibuprofen. The cart is half-filled before they reach women’s clothing.

“Okay this might actually be a challenge,” Queenie says, looking Credence up and down. “You’re very… statuesque.”

“What size shoe do you wear?” Newt asks him.

“Thirteen,” Credence says.

“Oh good,” Newt says. “I wear twelve and a half, but I have a pair of boots that are a bit too big. I bought them online and they’re about this tall.”

He holds his thumb and forefinger up with a huge distance between them.

“He’ll be like seven feet tall,” Tina says. 

“Well, obviously, if Mr. Graves preferred shorter men,” Newt says, “he wouldn’t have been interested in Credence to begin with.”

Tina sighs, while her sister takes things off the racks and holds them up against Credence’s body.

“No,” he says to anything pink, to anything with beads or glitter on it, to the leopard-patterned leggings, and to anything low cut. The best part is that Queenie doesn’t even look disappointed or upset, she just nods her head sharply and goes back to digging through hangers.

“Oh, what about this?” she asks him, holding up a very long pair of black leggings.

“Those are tights,” Credence says.

“No, they’re pants,” Queenie says. “They’ve got a zipper.”

The silver zipper is high up, and Credence guesses that if he wore something like this it would reach up past his navel. But it would stop an inch or two short of his ankles, probably.

“I don’t think they’ll fit,” Credence says. 

“If they don’t,” Queenie says, “we can just return ‘em.”

She puts the leggings in the cart.

“What would I even wear with something like that?” Credence asks.

“Just wear a button-up shirt,” Newt suggests. “But loose and don’t do all the buttons.”

“Do you still have that corset?” Tina asks.

“It’s not a corset,” Newt says. “But yes.”

“It’s black vinyl with laces and it goes over your ribs,” Tina says. “It might as well be a corset.”

“It makes me look like I have a waist, and that tone of voice is a bit unnecessary, I believe,” Newt says. “Also, corsets are supposed to change the shape of your body and usually have boning.”

“Fine, it’s not a corset,” Tina says.

“Teenie,” Queenie says, “you’re a genius.”

She shrugs a little and smiles at her sister. Credence senses that something significant happened, but he doesn’t know what it is. He’s relieved that Queenie decides she’s had enough shopping and they can go.

As if buying women’s clothing and not going to any kind of church isn’t blasphemous enough for one Sunday, when they get home Queenie tells him to go try on the leggings.

“I can return them on Monday if they’re awful,” she says.

Credence takes the leggings and hanger with him to the bathroom. Trepidation is the only word for what he feels. He can hear Mary Lou’s voice inside his head as he pinches the hanger’s clips and pulls the leggings free. They’re just tight pants, he tells himself. He pulls the fabric between his hands and plays with the cheap zipper. Just very tight pants.

Taking off his shoes and then his slacks, Credence stands in the bathroom in his shirt, socks, and underwear. He pulls the zipper open on the leggings, then rolls up the left leg first.

He puts one foot in and pulls the leggings halfway up his thigh. Then he gets his other leg in. The fabric stretches around his legs, but it doesn’t feel too tight. Then he pulls the waist up to his hips. The fabric of his underwear bunches up under the leggings.

Credence frowns, but he goes through with pulling the leggings all the way up and zipping them. 

His reflection shows lumps where his underwear folds and bunches.

There’s an easy solution to this, Credence realizes.

If God was going to strike him down for some unnatural act, Credence figures it would probably have been that night with Mr. Graves. Or, maybe for gazing at Mr. Graves at the gym, while the man was unaware. Credence has been masturbating since he was thirteen and so far hasn’t been smote for that either.

He peels the leggings off and tugs off his socks then shoves his underwear down his hips.

It’s a lot easier to get the leggings on when he’s not wearing socks. He has to be a little more careful with the zipper and he has to make some other adjustments, but the leggings fit a lot better without underwear.

He’s already wearing a button-up shirt like Newt recommended, so Credence opens a few buttons just to know what it would look like.

His legs look skinny to him, but maybe not as skinny as they used to be. He doesn’t wear a belt anymore and, after a few weeks of Queenie and Jacob’s cooking, his pants don’t even slide down his hips. His legs just look like legs, he thinks. Not good, not bad: just legs. His bare skin peeks out of the open collar of his shirt; the hair still hasn’t grown back on it.

He thinks he looks different, mostly. His hair has grown, he notes, not too much, but enough that Mary Lou would threaten to shave his head if she saw him.

Credence picks up and folds his other clothes, then carries it all out of the bathroom with him. 

“How do I look?” he asks everyone gathered in the living room.

Tina looks first and smiles at him. Queenie looks next, tilting her head and pursing her mouth. After Tina elbows Newt, he looks up from the laptop on his thighs.

“Wow,” Newt says.

Credence feels his face heat up.

“It’s just leggings,” Credence says.

“Well, you’ve got a great pair of legs,” Tina says. She looks delighted.

“How do you feel about makeup?” Queenie asks.

“I don’t know,” Credence says. “Ma didn’t even let my sisters wear any.”

This makes Queenie look just heartbroken. “Oh no, that’s awful.”

Just then, Jacob comes through the door. 

“I can’t believe how much pie crust I made today,” he says. “Hello, everybody! Please tell me we can go out for dinner tonight.”

He heads into the kitchen and comes back holding a bottle of beer in one hand.

“You know, Credence, you have what I think the kids these days call an ass that won’t quit,” Jacob says. “I mean that in the least offensive way imaginable.”

Credence holds his pants and underwear against his chest and blushes. 

Queenie sits on the couch giggling, while Tina covers her eyes and Newt still just looks at him. Credence leaves the living room to change without saying anything.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Jacob calls after him. 

“Sweetie, it’s fine,” Queenie tells him.

Credence changes back to his usual clothing, but when he looks at his reflection again it still seems different. His hair is still longer. His body is still a little broader than it was a month ago. He has been in Atlanta for more than two months nw. He really does live here. He has work. He has a little bit of money. He has friends. 

And God, so far, has not struck him down.

The hours seems to rush past him until Tuesday night. He can’t stop thinking about it, but when the day arrives it seems too soon. Everyone is home earlier than usual and rushing around. Jacob needs help tying his bowtie. Newt needs someone to zip up the back of his dress. Queenie makes the whole house smell like her flowery hairspray. 

“Should I draw on a mustache?” Tina asks. “Or is that too silly?”

She has a pleated tuxedo shirt on over what she calls a binder. It looks like an undershirt but it flattens her chest completely. The shirt makes her shoulders look broader and the pleats widen her body. Her legs look very long and straight in her neatly ironed pants.

Currently, she and Queenie are doing their hair in the bathroom. Tina combs all her hair back and slicks it down with gel or something. Queenie pins her blonde curls into a shape that makes Credence think of old black-and-white movies. He wanders around the house in his leggings and bare feet.

“Oh, I was going to get those boots for you,” Newt says.

“And the corset!” Tina shouts. “Or whatever.”

“It’s still not a corset,” Newt says.

Newt leads him into the bedroom he shares with Tina. Credence doesn’t clean the bedrooms, which are closed during the day. He’s really only seen inside them from the hallway. Now he sits on the bed Newt and Tina sleep on and watches the man dig through the closet while wearing an emerald green evening gown. 

“I should have not put this on first,” he says. “It’s barely been two years and I’ve forgotten everything I knew about evening wear.”

Their room has a lot of textbooks and papers in it. There are full, white binders lined up along the wall and a dark bookcase stuffed and stacked with books. Their clothes are bursting out of their closet, with a stack of clean, folded clothes sitting on a chair in the corner. 

Tina comes in, walks over to the bedside table, grabs some things and shoves them in the drawer.

“Sorry,” she says. All Credence saw was a flash of color. He didn’t even look at the bedside tables yet. He’s been watching Newt and all the things he digs out of the closet.

“I think the boots are on the top shelf in a box,” she says. 

“Well, I found the waist-cincher,” Newt says, “which is not a corset.”

He hands Tina something rectangular and black.

“You look really pretty tonight,” Tina says, which melts the aggravated expression off of Newt’s face. His cheeks go a little pink.

“Thank you,” he says. “You look, well, you look good as always.”

Tina hands the black waist-cincher to Credence.

“It laces up at the front,” Tina says, “so it’s a pain, but it’s pretty easy to get on and off.”

There’s a waxed string holding together the article of clothing, if it can be called that. Credence pulls the laces loose and then stands up to pull it up over his hips. That just seems easier than fitting his shoulders and arms through it. He tugs on the tails of his shirt.

“Is this right?” he asks Tina.

“Yeah, I think so,” she says. “Newt?”

The man has two boxes from the top of the closet in his hands. He barely glances over before saying, “Yes, that’s fine.”

There’s no mirror in Tina and Newt’s bedroom, so Credence just laces up the thing and trusts them both. He feels a little ridiculous, to say the least.

“That looks a great deal better on you than it ever did on me,” Newt says, handing Credence a giant pair of boots with heels nearly as wide as they are tall.

It would really hurt if he kicked someone while wearing those, Credence thinks. He takes them and sits down on the bed to put them on. He’s glad he doesn’t have socks on, because they wouldn’t fit if he did. He senses his feet are really going to hurt after tonight. But the boots do fit. He wobbles only a little when he stands up.

“He’s enormous now,” Tina says.

“What was it your sister said? Statuesque,” Newt says.

“Queenie will want to do your makeup,” Tina says. “Both of you.”

Credence practices walking around the house to make sure he won’t fall over. Maybe he shouldn’t drink anything tonight, if he’s going to wear these boots.

“Wow, you look like a glam rock star,” Jacob says, when Credence walks into the kitchen.

“Is that a compliment?” he asks.

Jacob laughs. “Yeah, kid, I meant it that way anyway. You look cool.”

Credence smiles a little and stomps out of the kitchen.

Queenie does Newt’s makeup in the bathroom, with him sitting on the toilet so she doesn’t have to reach up higher than her shoulders to touch his face. Credence watches her work with a very serious focus. Newt barely even blinks while she works. She smooths out his freckles, but doesn’t completely cover them. Then she colors in his eyelids with three different shades of green, plus a little silver and a little black. After that, she paints lines on his eyes so that they look much sharper and more feminine. Finally, she draws around his mouth with a pencil and fills in the lines with a soft pink color.

“Okay,” she says, “you’re gorgeous, and it’s Credence’s turn.”

“I don’t want that much,” Credence says. “But maybe.”

He chews his lip. “Lipstick?”

“If you don’t let me put a smokey eye on those gorgeous dark eyes of yours, baby, I’ll cry,” she says.

“Is that going to involve poking my eyelids a lot?” he asks.

“Yes,” Queenie tells him.

He sits down on the toilet anyway and lets her poke around his eyes with a black pencil. 

“Y’know, it’s a good thing this is supposed to be smudged looking,” she says, “because you cannot sit still.”

“You’re poking me in the eye,” Credence says.

“I do this to myself every day,” she says. “Think about that.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he says, which makes her laugh.

The lipstick part is much easier — Queenie spends more time picking out a color than it takes to apply it, with an actual brush, against Credence’s lips.

When Credence stands and looks at himself in the bathroom mirror he hardly recognizes his own face. He doesn’t even think Mary Lou would recognize him, not in lipstick and these clothes.

“Do you think Mr. Graves will know it’s me?” he asks.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Queenie says, “if he doesn’t, you just gotta tell him that it is.”

That leaves Credence with a sinking feeling in his chest, where Queenie probably meant to encourage him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angela is named after Angela Hill, who is one of the coolest people in MMA.
> 
> My tumblr is still jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com


	3. Bartender by T-Pain featuring T.I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence puts on a show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic refers to drag queens as women rather than drag queens, because that's how Credence sees them.

> _ “I like the bartender (oh if you’re lookin’ for me) _
> 
> _ I’m at the bar with her (uh-huh okay)” _
> 
> — T-Pain, Bartender

Somehow, the five of them all fit into Tina’s car. Jacob sits in the front seat and Queenie sits behind her sister. Credence and Newt squeeze into the backseat beside her with Credence in the middle. He has his legs folded up, but that’s not nearly as bad as Newt has it with his long skirt. The whole drive, Credence can’t stop thinking about how he’s not wearing any underwear.

And it turns out to be a very, very long drive, given how heavy the northbound traffic toward downtown is at eight o’clock.

Credence looks from Queenie’s curls to Newt’s, then settles for staring at his phone. 

When they finally arrive, the small parking lot is already full and they have to drive around the block to find somewhere to park. Newt complains about walking in heels, but Tina holds his arm.

The person at the front desk this time isn’t the blonde woman, Picquery, but a round-faced girl who, given everything, might not be a girl. Credence doesn’t think it bears questioning. He calls her ma’am. They each pay ten dollars to get in, which Credence didn’t need to do before.

Inside, there are all sorts of people, and so many of them that people are sitting on pool tables rather than playing. People greet Newt with hugs and kisses, calling him Apollo. What surprises Credence is people greeting Tina just as warmly, as though they know her.

“Daphne?” Credence asks.

“Look, it’s a mythology thing,” Tina says, having to speak loudly over the music.

Somehow, they find a place to sit. Or at least three chairs; Queenie is happy to sit in Jacob’s lap with her arms around his neck.

“You’re too heavy for that,” Tina tells Newt, but he sits on the arm of her chair anyway, leaning back against the wall and draping his legs across her lap.

Credence gets a seat to himself, but he does think he wouldn’t mind sitting in Mr. Graves’ lap. Or having Mr. Graves in his lap.

In the crowd of people, Credence hasn’t seen him.

“He’s at the bar!” Newt shouts over the music.

That gets Queenie up out of Jacob’s lap. She steps over to Credence and grabs his hand.

“Alright then,” she says. “I’m thirsty. We’re getting drinks.”

And Credence really doesn’t have much choice, does he? He gets up and follows her through the crowd. Half-naked men, women in t-shirts and button-ups, and people in fluffy dresses and short skirts crowd around the bar. But Credence has enough of a height advantage that he can watch Mr. Graves pour something into three martini glasses in a row.

Credence can’t look away from Mr. Graves’ hands. He watches Mr. Graves set the bottle down with one hand and take the stems of two glasses between the thick knuckles of the other. He easily passes all three drinks off to the same person far to Credence’s left.

For a moment, Credence forgets to breathe. Under the blue lights of Magic, Mr. Graves looks exactly as he remembers him. As the crowd shifts around them, with people getting their drinks and moving on, Queenie tugs Credence forward. 

He can’t look away from Mr. Graves, even though he never seems to look Credence’s way. 

Did Credence really, even for a moment, think that Mr. Graves was more attractive in his casual clothes or completely nude? He must have been insane. Because Mr. Graves clearly has never been more perfectly handsome than he is when fully dressed. 

He has a different pin holding his tie out and away from his throat. His sleeves are down, with metal cufflinks catching the blue light. His vest tonight has a pattern of little ovals with smaller ovals inside them. He has a handkerchief peeking out of his pocket in a perfect triangle.

Credence licks his lips and tastes lipstick.

“What can I get you tonight, lovely lady?” Mr. Graves asks Queenie.

She giggles and lists off two bottles of beer, five bottles of water, a gin martini, and a coke. 

Mr. Graves looks at Credence then. He says nothing for long enough that Credence swallows.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Graves says. He blinks.

He smiles a little, lopsided and handsome. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

Credence’s mouth feels sealed shut. 

“Are you alright?” Mr. Graves asks him.

“He’ll have a coke,” Queenie says. “And maybe your phone number?”

Mr. Graves looks at her and laughs a bit.

As though a spell over him has been broken, Credence moves. He pushes away from the bar and shoves through the crowd. It’s only when he’s halfway back to everyone else that he realizes he’s left Queenie to carry so many drinks by herself.

“Are you okay?” someone asks him, touching his shoulder. 

Credence flinches away with his whole body.

“Yo, man, sorry,” the person says. “What the Hell.”

Credence tries to find Queenie’s blonde curls in the crowd, and he does — but she’s already ahead of him by five feet somehow.

He pushes people out of his way to catch up, apologizing as he goes.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Queenie. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine,” she says. “I used to be a waitress, y’know? I’m a professional.”

She has a tray with ten drinks on it, balanced on one hand.

“Oh,” Credence says.

“So, that didn’t go so great, did it?” she says.

He doesn’t reply. Queenie walks through the crowd, turning sharply to avoid people and weaving her way in determined steps. People get out of her way when she moves, without her needing to do more than say, “Pardon. Coming through.”

Credence stays close behind, moving in her wake.

No one has taken his seat while he was gone.

“I guarded it for you,” Tina says. “How did things go?”

“Poorly,” Credence admits. He sips his coke and almost wishes there was alcohol in it.

“Damn,” Tina says.

“Credence ran away,” Queenie says, sipping her beer.

“Why would you do that?” Newt asks. He has the martini and he holds it very delicately as he balances on the arm of Tina’s chair.

“Hey,” Tina says. “Don’t hassle him about it.”

She leans over and pats his shoulder. “You’ll get another chance. It’s still early.”

The stage has people crowded all around it. Most of the people in the club aren’t even interested in sitting, but in dancing with each other or in front of the stage. The music is louder than it was the last time and Credence recognizes some of it. Only, there are more curse words in it now.

Women in exaggerated makeup and ridiculous costumes dance provocatively on the stage. They’re not singing, but they’re pretending to sing. In between, they make a lot of sexual jokes. Credence has never heard the word cunt so many times in his life. It should bother him, but it’s actually a pleasant distraction from the fear that Mr. Graves doesn’t recognize him and wouldn’t want to.

How could he possibly explain what happened? Why he’s here?

Credence slurps the watery soda left at the bottom of his glass.

“Apollo!” the fiftieth or so stranger says. “Are you on stage tonight? It’s been forever!”

Newt kisses the air beside this new person’s cheeks.

“Sorry, dear, I’m just here to have fun,” he tells them. His hand rests on Tina’s shoulder. The other holds his empty martini glass.

“Do you wanna dance?” Tina asks. “I kinda wanna dance.”

“With you, always,” Newt says. He bends to put his nose against her temple.

“Okay, no more martinis for you,” she says. “You’re getting sappy already.”

They get up, and Credence wonders if he should save their seat the way Tina saved his.

“Come on, Credence,” Tina says.

She holds her hand out. Credence doesn’t know how to say no to her. He doesn’t really want to. He takes her hand and follows the two of them out into the crowd.

If they don’t get too close to the stage, there’s a bit of space to dance. The people moving around leave room to let people grind their bodies together and bounce on the balls of their feet. Some people are doing more interesting things with their arms, like the people on stage, or moving their hips obscenely. But no one on the club floor drops into splits or kicks their legs up over their heads the way the performers on stage do. 

Credence feels sort of awed by their ability to do all that in dresses and spindly high heels. It looks dangerous.

Tina and Newt hold each other close when they dance. They don’t seem to follow any particularly pattern or beat in the music, as far as Credence can tell. Probably, they aren’t very good dancers. Newt seems fairly intoxicated already. But Newt smiles at Tina and she laughs.

Credence taps his foot to the beat and lets his shoulders move a little at least. He’s not sure what he should do with himself.

It probably doesn’t matter. Who’s even going to look at him with so many other people here? He’s hardly the most interesting thing to see.

He’s relaxed enough to sway his body and nod his head to the beat when someone puts their arm around his waist.

Credence looks over and doesn’t know the man touching him. He’s not wearing a shirt and he has big muscles, though he only comes up to Credence’s shoulder.

“Hi,” the man says. “Dancing by yourself?"

“Yes,” Credence says, though he’s not dancing anymore. He feels frozen.

The man isn’t unattractive. He’s just a surprise. If anything, the man’s full lips and smooth skin make him more of a shock. He’s quite handsome.

“You’re gorgeous,” the man says. “Seems like a shame to dance alone.”

He’s not alone, Credence thinks. Tina and Newt are right in front of him.

Tina looks up just as he thinks of her, as though she knows. She stumbles to the side and the man with his arm around Credence’s waist steps away.

“Whoa!” he says. “Watch where you’re going.”

“So sorry!” Tina says. “Sorry. I’m drunk.”

“It’s fine, Jesus,” the man says.

“You alright, Credence?” she asks.

When he doesn’t answer, Tina takes him by the arm.

“Dance with me,” she says.

“Fuck this,” the man says before he disappears from Credence’s side.

Tina pulls him close and when Credence looks behind him, Newt closes in.

“Is this alright?” Newt asks.

“Who was that guy?” Tina asks.

“I don’t know,” Credence says. 

“You looked terrified,” Tina says. “I’m sorry if you weren’t and I messed things up by stepping on his foot.”

“No, it’s fine,” Credence says. “I don’t think there was anything to mess up.”

Really, Newt and Tina stand no closer to him than a hug. He tries to follow the way they move, but he keeps wanting to follow the beat of the music instead. It puts his body just a little bit out of sync with theirs. Tina’s hands rest on his shoulders. Newt’s one hand rests on his hip and the other, Credence thinks, reaches around Credence to rest on Tina’s waist.

Credence doesn’t know where to put his own hands.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Newt says over his shoulder. “My feet already hurt.”

“We can go sit down,” Tina says.

“No, I’ll go,” Newt says. “You two have fun.”

Credence’s feet don’t even feel numb yet, which means that these boots might actually be more comfortable than some of his own shoes. His feet are definitely sweating, though, and he’ll feel bad about that later.

“Do you know how to tango?” Tina asks.

“No,” Credence says.

“Okay, me neither,” Tina says. “But we don’t have to have our hands all over each other, if you don’t like it.”

She puts a little bit of space between them with Newt gone and loosens up her movements. She still doesn’t exactly match what Credence thinks is the beat of the music, but she grins at him.

“Come on,” Tina says. “The channel is always on rap videos when I get home and turn on the TV. You’ve got to like this stuff.”

He kind of does, though it embarrasses him to have Tina point it out. 

She draws her hands up and shakes her whole body. Really, she looks a little ridiculous and it’s making her hair fall out of place. But who cares? Why does Credence care so much about how he looks?

It’s not as though Mr. Graves even remembers who he is.

Credence moves his hips to the beat of the music and shifts his feet so he has more leverage. He follows the music and mouths along to the words in songs he recognizes. The tall heels of his borrowed boots make a solid shock run up his whole leg when he pounds his foot to the beat.

“You’re a really good dancer, Credence!” Tina says. “Oh my god!”

Credence just laughs.

They don’t stop until Tina complains she’s sweating through her tuxedo jacket. Credence doesn’t want to dance by himself, so he goes with her. His feet don’t hurt, and he’s sweating but it’s not that bad. Leggings have that advantage over pants, at least.

When they get back to their seats, Newt is perched on the arm of Queenie’s chair and Jacob has a different bottle of beer. He’s making them laugh over something he’s just said, that Credence couldn’t hear over the music.

In Credence’s seat is the blonde woman, Picquery. She has a delicate little crown in her hair and wears a long, sparkling gown.

“So you  _are_ here,” she says. 

“Yes,” Credence says.

“Am I in your seat?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she says.

Credence doesn’t have any pockets to put his hands into, so he lets them hang at his sides in fists. Picquery sits with her legs crossed, swinging her foot back and forth slightly so that the blue light catches on her dress.

“Did you tell him you were coming?” she asks. “Of course not.”

She answers for him and it makes Credence angry. It’s not as if what she did was normal. So what if he didn’t call Mr. Graves? He shouldn’t even have the man’s number. He never even saved it into his phone, though he still has the note in his wallet. If he’s going to see him again, Credence wants to think that he did it himself.

Except, that’s not true. It took all of Credence’s friends, which he somehow has many of now, to drag him back here. Even then, he ran as soon as came face to face with Mr. Graves.

Credence recognizes his anger as self-recrimination. But he still points it at this woman.

“I don’t see how it matters,” he says.

“What if he hadn’t been here tonight?” she asks.

“Then I would… come back,” Credence says. “Another time.”

“Aw, but then you would have gotten all dressed up for nothing,” Picquery says.

She pushes herself up out of the chair. Credence has to look down pretty far to look her in the eye, but she still manages to make him feel small.

“Still want to give him that dance?” she asks, looking up at him with a smile.

Credence tries to step around her, but there’s really no space. She’s still between him and the only place to sit.

“Because it could be arranged,” she says.

“Fine,” Credence says. “Whatever you’re going to do, you’re obviously going to do it no matter what I say.”

She steps out of his way and crosses her arms at him.

Around him, Credence’s friends are all watching this happen but they stay very, very quiet.

“You make it sound so awful,” she says. “I’m just trying to do Percy a favor and you do like him. That’s so obvious it can be seen from outer space.”

Credence’s mouth tastes sour and he looks at his feet rather than the woman scolding him.

“Wouldn’t want you to feel like you wasted a night wearing those heels,” she says, before she turns and disappears.

“Oh my God,” Tina says, as soon as she’s out of sight. “She’s terrifying.”

“That’s pretty much her job,” Newt says. “I think.”

Queenie has gone back to sitting in Jacob’s lap and Tina returns to sharing a seat with Newt. Now, though, they try to both squeeze onto the same seat cushion together. Credence can’t tell if that’s actually working.

“I’m sure whatever she has planned won’t be that bad,” Newt says.

“And if it is,” Tina says, “I’ll fight her.”

“You just want to fight her, love,” Newt says.

“Okay, I do, but she still scares me,” Tina says.

Credence cracks open his bottle of water and finishes it in five swallows. He doesn’t know what’s coming, but he suspects that he won’t like it.

A woman with eyeshadow going up her forehead and drawn on eyebrows comes over to Newt and arranges her taffeta gown to lean over and speak with him. Credence watches Newt nod his head, but he can’t hear what they’re talking about. They look at him, though, and Credence doesn’t like that.

Once the woman leaves, Newt gets up.

“Are you alright with going on stage?” he asks.

“Do I have a choice?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Newt says.

Credence blinks. “Oh, then… I mean, I did it once before.”

“There are a lot more people here tonight,” Newt says.

“Will I have to undress?” Credence asks. “Because I don’t have any underwear on.”

Newt’s eyebrows go up and Credence can feel his face flushing. 

“That’s up to you,” he says.

“Okay,” Credence says. “I don’t mind then.”

“Credence, you should only do this if you truly want to,” Newt tells him.

“I’ll do it,” Credence says, firmer now. He doesn’t know what he’ll do exactly, but he has some ideas. He has spent a lot of time cleaning the house and listening to pop music, thinking about what he might do to Mr. Graves if he had the chance. He just never really expected to get the chance.

“Alright,” Newt says. “I’ll go let Seraphina know.”

He disappears, but only for a few minutes. When he returns he gives Credence a broad smile before trying to squeeze back into the same seat as Tina.

“This does not work,” she tells him. “Get offa me.”

“But you love me,” Newt insists.

“You’re heavy,” she says.

In the end, Tina ends up sitting on Newt’s lap, looking annoyed about it.

Credence smiles to himself about her put-upon expression when the music suddenly cuts out. The silence makes his ears ring. He can hear murmured voices that might, actually, be people speaking at normal volume to each other.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, I have a very special treat for all of you,” announces a voice that can only be Seraphina Picquery’s.

“Our very own Mr. Graves is going to get on stage,” she says. “Now, he’s feeling a little shy about this, so you have to make sure he feels appreciated. Do you hear me?”

Credence feels a little horrified at the roaring cheer that goes through the club when two women — well, people in fluffy skirts escort Mr. Graves up onto the stage. There are people whistling as Mr. Graves takes an exaggerated bow.

“I have no idea what the fuck this is about,” he shouts back at the crowd. He puts a particular emphasis on the word fuck.

“I think that’s your cue,” Newt says, and he offers Credence his hand. Credence looks at him and blinks. He has been so busy looking at Mr. Graves that he didn’t notice Newt getting up. When he looks over, Tina has taken over the chair. She leans on her elbow and smiles at him.

“Okay,” Credence says.

He puts his hand in Newt’s, and then they’re slipping through the crowd and toward the stage. Credence feels his heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t look up because he’ll just see Mr. Graves. He’s not sure he can do this if he has to look at the man. 

“Now, Mr. Graves isn’t the show, my lovelies, oh no, no, no — our Mr. Graves is the  _incentive_ for a show,” Picquery announces. 

Credence feels, for a moment, like he can’t breathe. This thing around his waist and ribs is obviously way too tight.

Then again, he thinks, he’s probably about to take it off anyway, and that knocks the air right back into his lungs.

“You can do this,” Newt whispers in his ear when they reach the stairs. “You’re a natural.”

“Cue the music, lovelies, the show has arrived,” Picquery says.

The music isn’t as pounding as Credence expects. It’s sweet and a little catchy. He doesn’t recognize it right away, but he doesn’t have a lot of focus to spare when he’s wobbling up the stairs and trying not to look at Mr. Graves. 

When the lyrics kick in, Mr. Graves loudly says, “Seraphina! You know I despise this song!”

Credence can’t help but stare at Mr. Graves, who cups a hand by his mouth to amplify his voice. The man looks over at him and Credence freezes. Credence turns sharply on his heel, ready to face a crowd of strangers before he faces Mr. Graves.

He squints against the lights on him and decides, actually, he’d much rather have his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to look at anyone at all.

Credence can follow the beat of the song easily. It’s simple and repetitive, not too fast or too slow. He taps his foot only three times before he knows he has it. Then he moves his hips slowly back and forth a few times, testing himself.

If he pretends, maybe he can just convince himself he’s back on the dance floor with Newt and Tina. He doesn’t have to impress anyone, but if he wanted to? Maybe he could.

He drops as low as he can, which is a lot lower than he expects. It’s the heels.

Credence puts his elbow on his knee and pretends as though he really meant to do this. 

It’s easy to push himself back up, though, and a couple people whistle. It’s embarrassing, but he can’t help but laugh.

This just seems so ridiculous. At least the song is funny. He can see why Mr. Graves must hate it — the chorus is something about liking the bartender. 

He turns on his heel again and faces Mr. Graves. The man stares at him in a way that throws Credence off. He loses the beat, which is stupid because it’s so simple. He stomps across the stage toward him. His stomach feels like it’s in his lungs. 

He looks at Credence with wide eyes and all Credence can think is that Mr. Graves doesn’t even remember him. He doesn’t know who Credence is. He probably doesn’t even care. One night that changed the course of Credence’s life was probably any other night for Mr. Graves. 

Credence feels his mouth twist up unhappily. 

He’s totally lost the beat of the song, but it doesn’t matter. He kicks his foot up and puts the heavy heel of his boot on Mr. Graves’ shoulder.

The man’s eyebrows go up. Despite himself, that makes Credence smile a little. 

His foot slips off Mr. Graves’ shoulder and Credence stumbles forward. He catches himself on the back of the chair Mr. Graves sits in and Credence looks down. He could straddle Mr. Graves’ leg like this, if he wanted. 

Instead he puts all his weight on that right foot and kicks his left out until he can straddle Mr. Graves’ lap.

He settles there, close enough that the end of his nose nearly touches Mr. Graves’.

The man just stares at him and, actually, it’s easier if he doesn’t remember. In this exact moment, he’s not even sure why he’d want Mr. Graves to remember. 

He curves his body against Mr. Graves’ chest and places both hands on him there.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, though he’s already doing it.

“Please do,” Mr. Graves says. “Please.”

Credence grins. 

He runs his hands down Mr. Graves’ sides and watches his shocked expression. Credence pushes himself back up off Mr. Graves’ lap when his hands reach his hips. When he’s standing, his hips are just about level with Mr. Graves’ face, and Mr. Graves isn’t looking away. Credence rocks his hips side to side.

“You should thrust,” Mr. Graves says, looking up at Credence’s face.

Credence doesn’t move at all for a moment. If he thrusts he’ll have his cock practically against Mr. Graves’ chin. He licks his lips, which taste like lipstick still, and rolls his hips forward. He stops just short of Mr. Graves’ face. 

He could put his whole leg up on Mr. Graves’ shoulder, Credence realizes. He picks one foot up and quickly realizes his boot is too heavy for that unless he braces himself on something. He wobbles again and comes down hard in Mr. Graves’ lap.

An arm goes around him and Credence startles so hard he nearly stands back up.

“I’ve got you,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence stares at him. Now he’s the wide-eyed one.

“What are you trying to do?” Mr. Graves asks.

He swallows. “I was going to put my leg on your shoulder.”

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says and his hand is on Credence’s thigh, sliding along the fabric of his leggings. It’s so close to being touched that Credence shivers. His fingers catch on the tendons of Credence’s knee and he tugs on Credence’s leg.

This can’t work, Credence thinks, but he picks up his leg and Mr. Graves quickly changes the position of his hand so that he holds him under one knee. His whole hand presses warm against the back of Credence’s thigh. 

It does work, at least for a while, and when Credence feels the muscle at the back of his thigh pulling he does what seems reasonable. He leans back, takes some pressure off his hips. Mr. Graves’ puts Credence’s knee over his shoulder like it’s nothing. Credence’s abs twinge with discomfort and he falls backwards.

“Oh no,” Mr. Graves says. He bends forward over Credence and pushes his knee toward his chest. 

Credence can hear people’s voices over the music, which isn’t loud enough. He can see Mr. Graves’ face as he looks down at him. This position is very sexual, Credence knows, and he doesn’t actually regret it. He tucks his chin against his collar so he can look at Mr. Graves. He moves his hands to his shirt buttons.

Then Credence remembers he’s got something over his shirt, so he moves his hands to the laces of the waist cincher — or whatever it is — instead. His hands might be shaking a little from the way Mr. Graves looks down at him. The man sits up and puts a hand on Credence’s other leg. 

Credence doesn’t need any more encouragement than that, He kicks that leg up and it’s much easier. He doesn’t feel quite so torn in three different directions with both legs over Mr. Graves’ shoulders. He crosses his ankles behind Mr. Graves’ head to keep him from sliding backwards off the man’s lap and cracking his skull on the stage, which seems like a very real risk right now. 

Mr. Graves’ rests his hands on the tops of Credence’s thighs. Credence tilts his head back so he doesn’t have to look Mr. Graves in the eye as his fingers struggle with the laces on whatever the Hell it is he’s wearing.

The thing puts up a fight as Credence tries to wiggle out of it. Gravity ought to work in his favor, shouldn’t it? Credence feels like he’s thrashing against Mr. Graves instead. By the time he has the thing wide enough to fit around his shoulders and then down over his arms, Credence feels short of breath.

Someone is cheering when Credence flings the thing to the stage floor. 

His shirt falls down his stomach and chest with nothing to hold it in place and Credence doesn’t realize he’s half naked until the tail of it softly falls over his face. Credence tries to push his shirt back over himself with both hands. 

When that doesn’t work, he tries to sit up again.

His body does a lot all at once without Credence really meaning to. His ankles unhook and his legs slide right down the lengths of Mr. Graves’ arms. The heels of his heavy boots hit the stage with a bang. He’s rightside up again, looking Mr. Graves right in the eye.

“I think the song is ending,” he says.

“No,” Credence says. “I wasn’t finished.”

He doesn’t even know what he was planning to do, only that he doesn’t want to get up. He wants Mr. Graves to look at him. He wants to feel like he can do anything, however provocative or obscene.

Mr. Graves looks up and away from him and Credence can hear it, the song ending and the next one bleeding into it already.

“Do you want me to carry you off stage?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No!” Credence says. But he does, now that Mr. Graves has said it. Credence can’t even imagine how it would feel to have Mr. Graves hoist him up in his lap like this. It doesn’t sound like a good idea, though. Credence would rather get shakily to his feet than end up dropped on stage.

When he looks behind him, there are already other people on stage with them. A woman even taller than Credence holds out the black corset and Credence snatches it back with both hands.

He stomps for the edge of the stage so quickly that a sudden hand on his shoulder nearly sends him falling down the stairs. 

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

“It is you? Isn’t it?”

His heart feels like a fist beating against the inside of his chest. There’s sweat on Credence’s back and all over his scalp, but it goes cold now.

When he turns, his heel goes right off the edge of the stage and Credence stumbles once, then twice, then crashes into whoever’s unlucky enough to be at the foot of the stairs. The person catches him by the shoulders and they don’t, somehow, just fall over like a pair of unlucky dominos.

Mr. Graves hurries down the steps to meet him.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“He’d better be,” Seraphina Picquery says, pushing Credence to his feet and hitting him hard between the shoulders.

Credence turns and stares at her. She looks right back at him.

“That was fairly impressive,” she says, “for an amateur.”

She looks away from him and towards Mr. Graves, “Go ahead and take however long you need to figure this out. We have the staff and goodness knows you’ve covered for me every time I needed you to.”

“Sera,” he says. “What is going on?” 

“Ask him that,” she says. “Oh, and this is your birthday present this year. So don’t expect anything else.”

“Sera,” Mr. Graves says, but she’s already turning away with a shimmer of her sparkling dress.

Credence looks at Mr. Graves and bites the inside of his bottom lip. He feels as though he should go. He should find somewhere he can put his clothes back together and calm down.

“We should get out of the way,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence nearly recoils from his hand against his arm. Mr. Graves hesitates, but takes Credence by the arm anyway. He pulls him away from the crowd near the stage and all Credence can think is that he’s got four extra inches in these boots and Mr. Graves still seems so much bigger than him. 

“Credence, right?” Mr. Graves asks. “I mean, I really am sorry if you’re not him and this is just a terribly strange coincidence.”

“It’s me,” Credence says.

“You look…” Mr. Graves glances up and down at him. Credence cringes.

“Gorgeous,” Mr. Graves says. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

Credence blinks.

“I thought you were only in town for a short while,” Mr. Graves says. “What brings you back here?”

“You,” Credence says.

He regrets it instantly. He’s not even drunk. He doesn’t know what he is, but he’s sober.

“Well,” Mr. Graves says. “There are a lot more interesting people here tonight, so I’m truly flattered, Credence.”

Credence looks at his feet. “I think I’d like to get dressed again.”

“I’d rather get you undressed,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence’s eyes go wide. His dick actually gets harder just from hearing Mr. Graves say that over the loud music. Did he really say it? Is Credence just imagining this?

“I mean, unless you don’t want to,” Mr. Graves says. “But I’m up for a repeat performance, if you are.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Graves says. 

He takes Credence’s hand and lifts it to his mouth, kissing Credence’s knuckles in a way that makes Credence shiver.

“May I,” Credence starts.

He swallows his tongue.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“I don’t want to mess up your lipstick, though, it’s lovely,” Mr. Graves says.

“I really don’t care,” Credence says. 

His hands are shaking when he reaches out for Mr. Graves, but he’s never been more sure of himself. The man’s skin is hot between his hands and he has to bend down now to kiss him. It feels so much more intense than Credence remembers, like putting his tongue to an open socket. He presses his lips against Mr. Graves’ lips and feels Mr. Graves’ tongue pushing against his teeth. 

He opens his mouth and he can taste his own lipstick on Mr. Graves’ tongue, but it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Suddenly he can’t remember anything better.

When Mr. Graves pulls away there’s red all over his mouth and even his chin, but it looks almost purple in the blue lights.

“Well,” he says, “we’re going to be very obvious, aren’t we?”

Credence unbuttons the cuff of his shirt, ready to use his sleeve to wipe off the lipstick, when Mr. Graves takes out the handkerchief folded in his pocket and wipes his own mouth. It’s not perfect, but who can tell in this light?

“Are you alright leaving with me?” Mr. Graves asks him. “It’s not really the best sort of night for privacy here.”

Credence thinks about what kind of bed someone like Mr. Graves might have. It’s probably huge and covered in pillows and the softest thing in the world.  He also thinks about how long it’s been since he actually slept in a bed — weeks,  _months_. 

“Yes,” he says. “But I came with — with Apollo actually. I’ve been living with him and, ah, Daphne.”

It’s strange to call Tina anything but Tina, however he wouldn’t want to disrespect her in this place.

Mr. Graves’ eyebrows rise. 

“I didn’t realize they had that sort of relationship,” he says.

“Oh,” Credence says. “Oh no! I don’t want to get them in trouble. It seemed like everyone else knows they’re — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mr. Graves, don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“They’re not in trouble,” Mr. Graves says. “And neither are you. I’m flattered honestly, that you’d even spare me your attention if you have the two of them.”

Credence pauses. He looks at Mr. Graves and tries to puzzle out what he’s just said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Credence says. “They’re my friends and they’re both very, very generous to let me stay with them. They’re the ones who brought me here so I could see you. Ti — Daphne is the one who had the idea.”

“Oh!” Mr. Graves says. “Oh fuck, Credence, that was rude of me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Credence says. 

“It was,” Mr. Graves says. “But thank you.”

Mr. Graves folds up his handkerchief and stuffs it back into his pocket.

“Shall we go find your friends?” he asks.

They move through the crowd together with Mr. Graves’ hand at the small of his back as Credence leads him to the chairs. People don’t get out of the way for Credence, but they certainly do for Mr. Graves. 

Newt’s sitting in the chair that Credence had, with his heels off and his feet on Tina’s lap. There's a new martini glass in his hand. They’re the first to notice, but when Queenie sees they’re looking at something she turns.

She claps when she sees him.

“You were great, Credence!” she says. “Everyone was cheering for you.”

“Queenie screamed,” Tina says.

“I totally did,” she says, grinning at him.

Credence smiles back a little bit.

“Tina,” he says. “May I have my phone and wallet?”

Tina stands up and starts to dig through her pockets. 

“Yeah, just gimme a sec.” She pulls out her own phone first and frowns at it. But the second time, she gets Credence’s phone and then his wallet.

“Here you go,” she says.

“Thank you,” Credence says, folding the waist cincher around them so he can easily hold everything.

“I guess you’re going to leave with, uh, Mr. Graves, then?” Tina asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“Okay, well, call me or text me or whatever if you need anything — a ride or even a talk or someone to go buy a six-pack, I don’t care, just call me,” she says.

“And you,” she says, pointing over Credence’s shoulder at Mr. Graves. “I know where you live.”

“Is that a threat, Miss Daphne?” Mr. Graves asks. “How very unlike you.”

“Don’t try me, mister,” she says. “I know where you work, too.”

“That you do,” Mr. Graves says.

Tina takes a deep breath and looks back to Credence. “Just have fun. Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. If Mr. Graves wants you to do something you don’t want to do, remember to keep your thumb outside your fist and follow through. Okay?”

Credence feels that is, perhaps, a bit extreme. 

Mr. Graves is someone she and Newt both know. Credence likes him well enough, or at least finds him to be almost magnetically attractive. Whatever trouble Credence finds himself in, he feels like he can handle it.

Newt comes over, holding his skirt up with one hand and digging down the front of his dress with the other.

“Be safe,” he says. “And use a rubber.”

He yanks a whole line of what Credence recognizes as condoms still in foil packages from his dress. This he holds out to Credence, though there are six of them.

“Those don’t work,” Credence says.

Newt makes a face.

“Oh no,” Tina says. “Okay, Newt, now is not the time for a lecture about contagious disease. Credence, please just use a condom if you’re going to put any body parts inside someone else or yourself. Graves, make him use a condom or don’t fuck him. I really do know where you live.”

Credence takes the condoms and folds them up with his phone and wallet.

“May I be excused now?” he asks.

“Don’t sass me,” Tina tells him. “I held your phone for you.”

“Thank you for that,” Credence says.

He turns and looks at Mr. Graves, feeling incredibly embarrassed by Newt and Tina’s behavior. Mr. Graves has his own cellphone in his hand, a large black iPhone, and he’s staring at it and typing quickly with his finger against the screen.

He looks up, the light on the screen illuminating his face. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves smiles at him before he tucks his phone away.

“Follow me,” he says, but he offers Credence his arm. Credence takes it with one hand and holds all his things with the other.

“Have fun, Credence!” Queenie shouts.

“Go get ‘em tiger!” Jacob shouts as well.

Mr. Graves looks at him and smiles before he leads Credence through the crowd. Credence doesn’t even look at other people around them. He has Mr. Graves to watch where he’s going, so he can just look at Mr. Graves’ face. 

He's so engrossed in his task that he almost stumbles on the threshold of the door as Mr. Graves leads him out.

“You've really done a number on my reputation as a man unaffected by the attention of my club’s patrons,” Mr. Graves tells him. 

Before Credence can apologize, Mr. Graves adds, “But I can't bring myself to care. I'm glad to see you again.”

“Me too,” Credence says. “I'm glad you want to see me.”

“I thought I never would again,” Mr. Graves says. “I felt ridiculous for not even giving you my number after everything. I thought it was for the best, but, well — I'm an idiot.”

“No!” Credence says. “You're not. I wouldn't have taken your number. I didn't intend to stay in Atlanta.”

“Well, I'm glad you did,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence smiles. “Me too.”

Mr. Graves takes his keys out of his pocket and the headlights flash on a little black car a few feet away.

“Sorry it’s not a sports car,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence blinks at him. “Am I supposed to care about that?”

Mr. Graves smiles at him, then gestures toward the car. “Go ahead, it should be open.”

The passenger seat of Mr. Graves’ car has enough space for Credence to stretch out his legs with all his belongings in his lap. Mr. Graves gets into the driver’s seat after him.

Credence wants to lean across the console between their seats to press his mouth against Mr. Graves. Instead, he sits very still.

“It’s going to be a bit of a drive,” Mr. Graves tells him. “Would you like the stereo on?"

“Yes,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves starts the car and turns up the volume. It’s not the same pop music from television or the club, but something soft and sweet with violins.

“Is this alright?” he asks. “You can change it if you want.”

“I like it,” Credence says.

Normally, when he’s being driven around Atlanta, he keeps his eyes out the window so he can learn this new city. He had all the streets around where he lived memorized, from the one slightly uneven section in the sidewalk to the bodega that always put frozen items on sale on Thursdays to the cracked step on the stairs down to the subway at his station. Here, he knows nothing and has nothing. It seems like every street is named Peachtree and he can’t get anywhere without a car.

But Credence watches Mr. Graves’ hands on the gear shift and then on the steering wheel. He watches the man turn and look over his shoulder as he backs out of the parking lot. For a second, their eyes lock, but then Mr. Graves turns to watch where he’s driving.

Only after they’re miles from the club does Mr. Graves say anything to him.

“So,” he starts. “How’d you end up living with one of my dancers and his girlfriend?”

“It was an accident,” Credence says.

He feels the strangest impulse to actually tell Mr. Graves the truth, but it would probably bore him. Credence’s problems are his own. Why would Mr. Graves care?

“I’ve done a lot of things by accident,” Mr. Graves says. “But I don’t think I ever moved in with someone. I don’t really remember much of my twenties, though, so who knows?”

He glances over at Credence and smiles.

Credence smiles back after Mr. Graves has turned his focus back onto the road.

In his lap, Credence’s phone buzzes.

“We’re leaving now. Call me if you need anything. Don’t let your phone battery die,” Tina messages him.

“I’ll turn it off,” Credence replies.

Then he does, because he doesn’t really want anything to distract him. He wants to memorize how the lights they drive past move across Mr. Graves’ face.

Once off the freeway, Credence knows they must be somewhere affluent, because all the streetlights are bright and clear. Only the occasional overhanging tree branch breaks up the pure white of LED lights.

Mr. Graves pulls into a long driveway and Credence only notices once they’ve stopped. He looks up and finds they’re parked to the side of a massive house with two huge trees in the front yard.

“You live here?” Credence asks, leaning forward so he can better peer through the windshield.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says. 

“Do you live alone or…?” Credence isn’t sure what to ask.

“Just me,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s a bit sad, I suppose, but I enjoy the privacy.”

Credence glances at him and immediately thinks of twelve ways he might use a bit of privacy with Mr. Graves. 

“It’s a bit wasteful, I know,” Mr. Graves says. “But I can give you a full tour, if you want.”

Credence gets out of the car and follows Mr. Graves up a stone path through the yard and up three stairs to a wooden porch with its own door.

“This lock sticks, you’ll have to excuse me,” Mr. Graves tells him.

Credence takes the time to stare through the mesh that encloses the porch area at the details of the house. It’s almost all wood, with a bit of stone. There are little electric lights along the path through the yard and one that turns on as soon as Mr. Graves gets the porch door open.

He takes a shaky breath while Mr. Graves unlocks the front door of his house. The man goes in, turns on a light, and then holds the door open for Credence.

His heart pounding, Credence steps over the threshold with determination. He’s clutching his phone and wallet and the string of condoms as hard as he possibly can in both hands, held in front of him. His fingers hurt from it.

“Welcome,” Mr. Graves says. “Could I get you something to drink?”

The door shuts with a whisper behind Credence’s back.

“No, I’m fine,” Credence says. “Thank you.”

Mr. Graves looks at him, then, and Credence wishes he could relax or simply do the thing he’s thinking about. 

“You look even better in the light,” Mr. Graves says.

“Thank you,” Credence says. 

His hair is now long enough to fall into his eyes in the front, but too short to tuck behind his ears. He doesn’t think it looks very good, but he also doesn’t do anything other than comb it. On especially hot and humid days, it curls. He thinks it’s probably curling now, because his skin still feels sticky with sweat.

“I want to,” Credence starts, “kiss you.”

“Please do,” Mr. Graves says. “Come here.”

Credence steps forward, heels heavy on the hardwood floor. His hands are still full, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Mr. Graves who reaches up and pulls Credence down by the back of his neck. Credence looks into Mr. Graves’ eyes until the absolute last moment, when everything seems to blur and double. Mr. Graves tilts his head slightly back so that his mouth fits perfectly against Credence’s lips.

He opens his mouth and his tongue slides past Mr. Graves’ teeth. It’s slow and wet, more intimate somehow just for the lights and the location. He’s in Mr. Graves’ home, right at the front door, and licking into the man’s mouth as though he never wants to stop.

When Mr. Graves puts an arm around Credence’s back, it feels incredibly unfair. He still has his hands full and can’t touch Mr. Graves. It’s all he wants to do.

Credence pulls himself away from the kiss. His lips feel raw and there’s lipstick all over Mr. Graves’ mouth and the skin around it again.

“Mr. Graves,” he says. 

“Oh, fuck,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence jolts back and nearly drops his phone.

“No, no, sorry,” he says, reaching out for Credence’s shoulder. Credence flinches away.

“Sorry,” Mr. Graves repeats. “It’s just, I keep forgetting to properly introduce myself and, at this point, it feels awfully late.”

“Oh,” Credence says.

“I don’t know your full name either,” Mr. Graves says. “Do I?”

“No, sir,” Credence says.

Credence wedges everything in his two hands under his arm.

“Credence Barebone,” he says, offering Mr. Graves his hand.

This makes Mr. Graves smile in a way that creases the skin around his eyes handsomely. 

“Percival Graves,” he says. “It’s a pleasure, truly.”

He takes Credence’s hand in his, but turns it and bends down to kiss Credence’s fingers. His heart pounds at the sight of Mr. Graves looking up at him from a bow.

“My friends call me Percy more than I wish they would,” he says. “But you’re free to call me anything you please, Credence.”

“May I call you Mr. Graves?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” he says. He’s still smiling up at Credence.

Credence takes a shaky breath, in and then out.

It helps, a little, that just thinking about what he wants to do makes Credence feel unsteady on his feet. He steps back slightly and easily goes down onto one knee. He sets his things down at his side, his phone clattering against the hardwood, and flinches at how loud the flooring makes everything sound. He tucks his other leg under him and cringes at the heavy thud of his boot against the wood.

“Mr. Graves,” he says, looking up. 

He wants to put his hands on the man’s hips, which are right there, but his hands shake when he lifts his arms.

“Yes?” Mr. Graves asks.

For a moment, Credence feels mute. He hears his own racing heartbeat in his ears. When he licks his lips, they still taste like lipstick.

“I want to seduce you,” he says. 

When Mr. Graves doesn’t say anything, Credence rushes ahead with everything else he wants to say. “I don’t really know how, but you could tell me what to do. How to please you.”

Mr. Graves looks down at him and his smile tilts to one side in a way that excites Credence.

He doesn’t expect Mr. Graves to kneel down as well, but it’s not bad. They look each other right in the eye and somehow Mr. Graves still seems very imposing with red lipstick smeared on his face.

“Credence,” he says. “Do you want to suck my cock?”

“Yes,” he says, feeling his face flush. “I want to taste you again, please.”

Mr. Graves leans forward and kisses him quickly.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says, “I’m seduced. Get up.”

He stands and Credence tries to follow, though he’s a little wobbly on his heels.

“This floor is murder on the knees,” Mr. Graves says. “I want both of us to enjoy this.”

“Okay,” Credence says. He bends down again to pick up his phone and everything else.

“Bedroom or couch?” Mr. Graves asks. “The bedroom has more hardwood, but it is the bedroom.”

“I get to pick?” Credence asks.

“Of course,” Mr. Graves says, waving his hand. “After an offer like that, I’d book you a suite at the Ritz-Carlton if you wanted.”

“The couch would be fine,” Credence says. 

The couch is, apparently, not anywhere at the front of the house. Credence peers into Mr. Graves’ dining room and kitchen and all around him before being lead into an expansive room full of bookcases and seating. There’s a television mounted on the wall that’s bigger than anything Credence has seen outside a Best Buy.

“You look overwhelmed,” Mr. Graves says, making Credence’s attention snap back to his face.

“A little,” he says. 

“I admit I may be using conspicuous consumption to cover for something,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence wonders if he should ask what Mr. Graves is covering up, but it doesn’t seem worth pursuing. He doesn’t want to pry. 

Mr. Graves walks around the edge of the couch, which isn’t even what Credence would think of as a couch. It is to couches as Jerusalem is to cities, Credence thinks, which is perhaps the most blasphemous thing he’s ever thought in his life. But it’s a sweeping curve of off-white cushions with a low back. There are dark blue pillows strewn about, and a few magazines stacked up with the television remote on top. 

“Why don’t you come over here?” Mr. Graves asks, while Credence is still taking in all the details around him.

He’s sitting with his ankle up on his knee, taking his shoes off. Credence walks around the end of the couch, relieved that his boots don’t make much noise on the carpet.

Credence stands close, but not too close. 

“You can set your things down wherever you want,” Mr. Graves tells him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Credence puts everything on the coffee table, which has a large photo album on it and a glass bowl with some sand and two small candles inside. Everything looks so nice and purposeful, like something from television.

When Credence looks back to Mr. Graves, the man is loosening his tie with both hands. 

The couch is still unbelievably massive, but the only place Credence wants to sit is on Mr. Graves’ lap. He was just there what feels like a moment ago, but that was under blue lights on a stage. This is Mr. Graves’ living room in his home. There are soft, bright lights all around. Mr. Graves is so handsome that Credence feels like he shouldn’t even blink.

Taking a deep breath, Credence steps in front of Mr. Graves and puts his knee up on the couch cushion. 

“May I?” he asks. 

Mr. Graves takes his hands off his tie, letting it hang from his collar. He reaches out and puts a hand against Credence’s thigh.

“Please do,” he says, looking up at Credence. 

It’s so easy, after that. His leg slides along the cushion beside Mr. Graves’ leg and he pulls his other leg up as well so that he’s settled into the space between Mr. Graves’ thighs. 

Mr. Graves moves his hand up Credence’s leg, but he takes it away before he reaches the hem of Credence’s shirt. Credence takes in a sharp breath to hold back his disappointment.

Instead of touching Credence, he pulls his tie free from his collar and holds it between both hands. He reaches up and Credence lets him loop it around the back of his neck. He feels his face heating up, because he remembers this. Their positions have switched, but it’s exactly the same in every other way. 

Mr. Graves draws him down until Credence could go cross-eyed trying to look at him. Then Mr. Graves pulls him in closer. Their mouths meet and Credence opens his. He tastes Mr. Graves’ lips and the stubble under his lower lip. The stubble above his mouth and on his chin scrapes against Credence’s skin in a way that sends shivers through him. 

The tie falls away, but Credence reaches up and grabs Mr. Graves by both arms. He wants Mr. Graves’ hands on him, holding his neck, holding his face. Really, Credence would settle for anything. He just wants Mr. Graves’ hands on him. 

Mr. Graves holds him by both sides of his throat, then, and pulls Credence even closer. The kiss deepens until Credence feels the softness at the back of Mr. Graves’ mouth. 

He spreads his knees further and further apart, sinking against Mr. Graves until they are chest to chest and hip to hip. His inner thighs ache, but it’s worth it. 

Then Mr. Graves’ pushes him away, with his thumbs tucked up under the corners of Credence’s jaw. He whines, right at the back of his throat, but he doesn’t fight.

“I want to kiss your neck,” Mr. Graves says. “Do you mind if I leave any marks? I can try to avoid it.”

Credence rocks his hips against Mr. Graves and thinks, in frustration, that he was supposed to be the one to seduce Mr. Graves. He wanted to do it. He’s been thinking about it for weeks.

Rather than object, Credence says, “Please, do whatever you want.”

His skin feels so cold when Mr. Graves takes one of his hands away. But Credence tips his head against Mr. Graves’ other hand and moves closer, hoping to encourage Mr. Graves to kiss him. It must work, because Mr. Graves leans forward and kisses the corner of Credence’s jaw. He works his way down the line of the bone, nipping at Credence’s skin as he goes. 

Mr. Graves kisses his way right to Credence’s pulse and then sucks on the skin there. Credence can feel the heat of Mr. Graves’ tongue. He digs his fingers into Mr. Graves’ arms until his forearms twinge.

Credence licks his lips and feels his ribs spasm when he makes a small noise. 

Mr. Graves pulls away and looks at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, though he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.

“No, no, that was good,” Mr. Graves says. “You should — I want you to make all the noise you want to, Credence. There’s no one here but us, and I want to hear you.”

Credence swallows and finds that he’s already breathing too fast. He’s hard, but that’s easy. He’s been that way since he was on stage with Mr. Graves — and this is far more intimate. 

“I’ll try,” Credence says.

“You don’t need to fake it,” Mr. Graves tells him. “I just like to know when I’m doing a good job.”

Credence cannot imagine that anything Mr. Graves could do would qualify as a bad job.

They look into each other’s eyes and Credence wants so many things that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Mr. Graves lifts his hand and touches Credence’s neck, his thumb touching the places where he just had his mouth.

“Already turning red,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Credence tips his head back so that Mr. Graves can see his throat better if he wants to. Maybe that will inspire him to kiss it again.

Instead, Mr. Graves moves his hand down Credence’s neck to his collar. Already, a few of Credence’s shirt buttons are open and Mr. Graves moves his fingertips under the fabric to his bare skin. 

“Should I take it off?” Credence asks.

Mr. Graves smiles up at him. “Oh no, I’ll do that.”

His hand leaves the side of Credence’s neck and opens the buttons of Credence’s shirt, until both hands rest warm against Credence’s skin. 

“I thought so,” Mr. Graves says. Credence, who arches into the way Mr. Graves holds him around the ribs, blinks and looks down.

“Just your chest?” Mr. Graves asks. “Or everything?”

He pointedly glances down in a way that makes Credence’s face heat up.

“Just my chest,” Credence says. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, Credence?” Mr. Graves asks. “Hair grows back. For now, I’ve got all this skin to kiss.”

Credence bites his tongue on the sound that wants to come out of him, even though Mr. Graves said he wanted to hear him.

Mr. Graves pulls him close with both hands on his naked back. Credence lets his shirt slip off his arms and fall somewhere to the floor. What does it matter if it wrinkles? He doesn’t care at all. 

Mr. Graves presses his lips to the base of Credence’s throat. He kisses him with an open mouth, all the way down Credence’s sternum. His tongue moves over the ridges of bone under Credence’s skin and his stubble scratches at Credence in a way that makes his hard cock throb. He feels a small wet spot start to form on the inside of his leggings.

“Oh,” Credence says, his mouth falling open and unable to close. 

Mr. Graves glances up at him and then pulls away. His hand moves up from Credence’s ribs and he brushes the pad of his thumb against Credence left nipple. The hair there has started to grow back by now, but it’s very fine. Somehow this makes Credence feel even more sensitive. His nipple hardens to a tiny point from just a few gentle touches.

“Does that feel good?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence nods his head.

Mr. Graves shifts his hand, takes the hard point of Credence’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and pinches him. It’s quick and sharp, a shot of electricity right down Credence’s spine. Credence sits up so straight. Despite clenching his jaw, a high-pitched sound tears out of his throat.

Mr. Graves only smiles and touches him gently.

He sees Mr. Graves lick his lips, which are still smeared with Credence’s lipstick color. The man smiles at him again.

Really, Credence should see it coming, but he doesn’t. Mr. Graves leans forward and kisses Credence’s chest. Then he puts his hot, wet mouth over Credence’s nipple. It feels obscenely good in a way that reminds Credence all too well that he’s had his cock in Mr. Graves’ mouth once before. 

Then Mr. Graves bites him. Credence’s hips buck forward. He grabs onto Mr. Graves’ arms forcefully. His whole body jerks.

Mr. Graves pulls away and grins at him. “You’re wonderfully responsive.”

Credence breathes hard and the air feels particularly cold on his skin where Mr. Graves has left his spit behind.

If he doesn’t get Mr. Graves’ cock in his mouth soon, Credence knows he’ll quickly be begging to have Mr. Graves’ mouth on his own. He swallows and tries to find the words. It’s a bit difficult when Mr. Graves starts to touch his left nipple until it’s hard as well.

“Mr. Graves,” he says. 

“Yes?” the man asks.

“When can I taste you?” Credence asks. “Not that I don’t. Enjoy this. I’m enjoying this a lot. Maybe too much.”

“But you want to suck my cock?” Mr. Graves asks. 

“Yes,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves sighs, then, a long and drawn out sort of thing. “I suppose we have all night, don’t we? I can see just how sensitive you are later.”

Credence feels a kind of creeping anxiety at that statement, but it’s thrilling. He has enjoyed this a lot. But there are so many other things he wants as well. The first of those things is simply to be able to make Mr. Graves feel as good as the man makes him feel.

“Yes,” Credence says. “All night and in the morning as well, if you’d like.”

“Oh?” Mr. Graves asks. 

“Yes?” he says, now unsure. “You can have me for as long as you like.”

His heart pounds in his chest, and Credence knows it’s not just because of how aroused he is.

“Is that so, Credence?” Mr. Graves says.

He’s so nervous that he can only nod. Mr. Graves smiles at him and moves his hands down Credence’s back until they reach the edge of his leggings. Mr. Graves rests his hands just above the curve of Credence’s hips and Credence wishes he wouldn’t stop there.

“I should,” Credence starts. 

“Move if I’m going to —” He stops short.

Credence bites his lip. He doesn’t talk this way and it’s only going to sound awkward, for sure. 

“Suck your cock.”

The skin around Mr. Graves’ eyes creases when he laughs and Credence finds him incredibly handsome, though he can’t help but cringe at himself. He shouldn’t have tried.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says. He takes his hands off of Credence’s hips.

“You do whatever you want, Credence.”

Credence takes one more opportunity to kiss Mr. Graves, just quickly pressing his lips to the man’s mouth before he pushes himself up and off his lap. His knees slide off the couch cushions and his heavy heels hit the carpet. He holds onto Mr. Graves’ arms and then his thighs so he doesn’t just hit the floor right away. He’s not sure how to do this seductively, but as much as he can Credence tries to keep his body close to Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves puts a hand over Credence’s where it rests on his leg. The man stares down at Credence without blinking as he licks his lips.

“Wait,” Mr. Graves says.

Mr. Graves turns and leans over, grabbing some of the dark blue pillows. 

“Here,” he says, offering one to Credence. “For your knees, if you want it.”

“Oh,” Credence says. “Thank you.”

He takes a pillow and shuffles back slightly on his knees until the heels of his boots hit the bottom of the coffee table. Mr. Graves moves too, spreading his knees and slouching so that his hips rest at the edge of the couch cushion. Credence kneels on the pillow and looks up at Mr. Graves. 

He can see the bulge of Mr. Graves’ cock under the fabric of his pants. He leans forward and presses his nose and mouth against it.

“Fuck,” Mr. Graves says.

Then his name, “Credence.”

Credence opens his mouth and puts it against the shape of Mr. Graves’ cock. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he wants to do this.

“Oh, Credence, you’re gorgeous, but you’re going to get lipstick on my pants,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence reels back and, really, how is there still any lipstick on his mouth at all? Shouldn’t it all have been kissed off by now? But there’s a faint, red stain in the shape of Credence’s open mouth on the grey fabric of Mr. Graves’ pants.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” Mr. Graves says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Mr. Graves’ hands go to the fly of his pants and begin to pull it open.

“Wait,” Credence says, and Mr. Graves stops.

He can’t look Mr. Graves in the eye as he speaks, but Credence has been thinking of this for so long.

“I want to unwrap my gift,” he says, looking at Mr. Graves’ hands.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, and he glances up nervously. “You are such a delight. What did I do to deserve a treat like you?”

Credence looks down again, but he’s smiling now, face hot. He moves to open Mr. Graves’ pants even though his hands feel unsteady. He goes right to the zipper and then realizes he should probably open Mr. Graves’ belt. It’s the kind with a smooth metal buckle that Credence only has to pop open.

“May I help?” Mr. Graves asks.

“I suppose,” Credence says. 

Mr. Graves pulls his belt loose from his pants and tosses it over the back of the couch. Credence barely spares it a glance, but he hears a small thud against the carpet when it hits. Credence is already busy with the hidden button at the top of Mr. Graves’ fly. The zipper opens smoothly. Credence pushes the tails of Mr. Graves’ shirt out of his way so that he can touch Mr. Graves’ hard cock through his underwear. Mr. Graves undoes the lowest buttons and arranges his shirt so that Credence can see a little triangle of his skin under the hem of his vest.

Credence stares at that little inch of skin while he tries to find the fly of Mr. Graves’ boxers. It’s very nice underwear, white with so many little black circles on it that it looks almost grey. The tight fabric fits over Mr. Graves’ cock so well. When Mr. Graves holds the fly of his pants open and tucks his shirt up under his vest, Credence can read the label on the elastic.

“Armani?” he asks. 

“I did say I like conspicuous consumption,” Mr. Graves says, with a warm chuckle.

“I think it suits you,” Credence says. “You’re as handsome as a billboard model.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves says. “I think my underwear modeling days are long over, but you’re very sweet, Credence.”

When Credence finds the way into Mr. Graves’ underwear and finally puts his fingers around Mr. Graves’ cock, the man groans. Credence looks up and watches Mr. Graves tilt his head back so that Credence can see his throat.

Credence carefully pulls Mr. Graves’ erection out of his underwear and is struck again by how perfect it is. It’s better than pornography. Better than art. Credence feels overwhelmed with desire just to see it. He moves his hand along the shaft and the skin pulls back from the flushed head.

“Wow,” he says.

“You’re terrible for my ego,” Mr. Graves says.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, staring at Mr. Graves’ cock still.

“You don’t need to apologize so much, Credence,” Mr. Graves tells him.

“Alright,” he says, “then I’m not sorry.”

He holds Mr. Graves cock with both hands and leans forward with his arms resting on Mr. Graves’ thighs. He doesn’t know what to do, exactly, but he does know how to kiss. He presses his mouth right to the tip. 

Then Credence sticks his tongue out and licks it. He tastes salt and skin, mostly, but that’s what he expects. It’s not bad.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says.

“I do like to think that giving a blowjob is a learned skill,” Mr. Graves says. “Do you want me to talk you through it?”

Credence nods his head. 

“I want to know what you like, Mr. Graves,” he says.

“I like your lovely face,” Mr. Graves says. “I think I like you, at least I like everything I’ve seen so far. I like that you came back to see me.”

That is not what Credence meant, but he feels overwhelmed by it. He looks down and to the left, at the couch cushion.

Mr. Graves’ hand catches him under his chin and Credence flinches a little, so Mr. Graves moves away slightly. He touches Credence’s cheek instead.

“Would you look at me?” Mr. Graves asks. Credence doesn’t particularly want to, but he does because Mr. Graves asked.

“Thank you, Credence,” he says. “Now, open your mouth. That’s the obvious first step.”

Credence does what he’s told and Mr. Graves moves his thumb from Credence’s cheek to his lower lip. He pushes it into Credence’s mouth so that Credence can taste his skin.

“It’s good to focus mostly on the head,” Mr. Graves says. “Be careful with your teeth, but really do whatever you want to do. It all feels pretty good and you’re gorgeous.”

Mr. Graves pushes his thumb deeper into Credence’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue. 

“Don’t worry about making a mess, I think that’s important,” he says. “If it’s good, it’s going to be messy.”

Credence imagined this would go differently. He has an urge to close his lips around Mr. Graves’ thumb and suck on it, as a demonstration of what he could do.

“It’s not worth it to make yourself gag,” Mr. Graves tells him.

Credence closes his eyes first, then his mouth. His tongue curves under Mr. Graves’ thumb and he pulls it deeper into his mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” Mr. Graves says. “Yes, Credence, just do that.”

When Mr. Graves takes his thumb back, it pops wetly out of Credence’s mouth. He opens his eyes and can see every line on Mr. Graves’ face as he looks at Credence. He is just so handsome.

Credence leans forward and kisses the head of Mr. Graves’ cock again. He kisses and kisses, letting his tongue slip between his lips until the end of Mr. Graves’ cock is wet with his spit. He looks at Mr. Graves again before he opens his mouth.

The man looks down at him with his lips slightly parted and one hand on the buttons of his vest. He started undressing himself while Credence wasn’t looking.

Credence looks now, as he puts the head of Mr. Graves’ cock between his lips. It’s hot against his tongue and already wet. He can’t taste anything different really. Mr. Graves’ eyes slide shut and he tips his head back.

“Just like that, Credence,” he says. Then he groans as Credence sucks on the head.

It’s easier than he thought it would be. He keeps both hands on the shaft and does what Mr. Graves told him to do. Credence watches Mr. Graves as he unbuttons his vest and then his shirt, his chest rising and falling with every heavy breath. 

“That’s very good,” Mr. Graves tells him, even though Credence just does the same thing over and over again. 

His lips and tongue start to feel rubbed raw, just a little. Credence can’t imagine that much time has passed. He ignores the feeling and tries to go a little faster.

“Jesus,” Mr. Graves hisses out. “Yeah, really good.”

Encouraged, Credence pushes himself. Spit gets all over his lips and the skin around him, as well as on his hand. But as long as Mr. Graves enjoys it, Credence doesn’t care. He takes one of his hands away and tries to take more of Mr. Graves’ cock in his mouth, as much as he can possibly fit. 

He anticipates making himself gag. Mr. Graves said it wouldn’t be worth it, but Credence thinks it can’t be that bad. He doesn’t expect to choke. When the width of Mr. Graves’ cock hits the back of his throat, Credence pulls back instantly. He moves away from Mr. Graves entirely and starts to cough violently.

“Oh no,” Mr. Graves says. His hands brush against Credence’s face, while he’s still coughing. There’s spit dripping from Credence’s open mouth and he feels tears in his eyes.

“Baby,” Mr. Graves says. “Credence. Just breathe.”

He’s trying.

He coughs once more and is left trying to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You’ve really got to stop that,” Mr. Graves says. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You just got carried away.”

Mr. Graves holds him by both sides of his face and drags him upward. Credence almost comes up off his knees, but then he’s being kissed — Mr. Graves’ mouth feels warm against his lips. He thought he was going numb, but his mouth feels even more sensitive to these kisses.

“Do you want to keep going?” Mr. Graves asks when he pulls away.

“Yes,” Credence says. He’s not so desperately aroused anymore, like he was in Mr. Graves lap, but this is something that he wants to do for Mr. Graves. He’s thought a lot about it.

“You want me to come in your mouth again, Credence?”

Heat flares in his face.

“Yes, Mr. Graves,” he says. “Please.”

When Mr. Graves sighs, he's so close to Credence’s face that he can feel it. 

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says.

He sits up again, but his hands stay framed on Credence’s jaw.

“Can I keep my hands on you?” Mr. Graves asks. “You’re doing a very good job, Credence, but maybe you could use some help.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “I agree completely.”

With his shirt fully opened, Credence can see so much, from the way Mr. Graves’ throat moves when he swallows to the little crease in his skin forms above his navel when he bends toward Credence. It’s amazing how much he can see in this lighting. He’s seen Mr. Graves entire body before, yet he looks so much more vivid and beautiful now.

When Mr. Graves puts his hand around his cock, Credence gets his own out of the way. He rests his hands instead on the inside seams of Mr. Graves’ very nice pants. The fabric is so soft and the muscle beneath it so firm. Credence squeezes his hands a little just to feel Mr. Graves’ body.

He watches from only a few inches away as Mr. Graves strokes himself with one hand. There’s a ring of lipstick smeared on the skin just below the head. Credence feels hot just seeing Mr. Graves’ hand move over it.

“Please,” Credence says, watching Mr. Graves pull the skin over the head.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Graves says, “whenever you’re ready.”

Mr. Graves’ hand stays along Credence’s jaw as he leans forward again. He opens his mouth and looks up at Mr. Graves. The man leans back slightly and looks down at him.

It’s different, Credence thinks, when he’s not doing it all himself. He likes Mr. Graves’ hand holding his face. But it’s not like their first time together, when Mr. Graves did everything. Credence knows now that Mr. Graves will squeeze his eyes shut if Credence presses his tongue up against the head of his cock inside his mouth. 

He likes that. 

He likes watching Mr. Graves’ chest rise and fall with panting breaths. The man licks his lips before he says Credence’s name. He gets a bit flushed in the highest part of his cheeks. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” he says. 

Credence sucks on just the very tip of Mr. Graves’ cock until his tongue feels tender and his jaw aches. Until Mr. Graves shuts his eyes tight and groans. Saliva drips from the corners of Credence’s mouth no matter how much he swallows. He can already taste bitterness. 

He’s expecting it when Mr. Graves says, “I’m going to come.”

And he would tell Mr. Graves that he wants it, but his mouth is already full.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, his voice low and rumbling. 

Credence squeezes Mr. Graves thighs when they tense under his hands. The man’s body shudders and Credence watches for as long as he can. The sudden flood of semen against his tongue makes him blink for some reason. But then he’s swallowing it. He swallows and swallows and swallows, until Mr. Graves pushes him away by his chin.

“Well,” Mr. Graves says. “That was delightful.”

Credence smiles a little to himself. His mouth tastes bitter and sour inside, but he feels rather accomplished.

“I can’t move at the moment,” Mr. Graves says, “so you’re going to have to come up here so I can kiss you.” 

Credence struggles to his feet, leaning on Mr. Graves’ knees for support. Once he’s on the sofa, Credence settles into the space between Mr. Graves’ open legs, keeping himself out of Mr. Graves’ lap simply because the man still has his naked cock in his hand. 

Mr. Graves kisses Credence with an open mouth and tucks his hand against the back of Credence’s neck. He licks the inside of Credence’s mouth and Credence sucks on his tongue. 

He puts his hands on Mr. Graves’ shoulders, uncertain whether he should push his shirt open and touch his skin directly. Mr. Graves’ hand combs through the hair at the back of his head and Credence’s cock twitches, just from being kissed and petted.

When he pulls away, it’s only because his legs are tired of kneeling.

“I have an idea,” Mr. Graves says.

“Yes,” Credence says.

This makes Mr. Graves laugh without even opening his mouth. Credence feels it through his hands on the man’s shoulders.

“Would you like to wash off your makeup?” Mr. Graves asks. “Because I think I’d like a shower.”

“Okay,” Credence says. He’s spent practically every shower for the past few weeks thinking of Mr. Graves and touching his own cock. The thought of actually sharing a shower with Mr. Graves now sends shivers up his back.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says. “I hope you don’t think just because I’ve already come that I don’t want to put my hands all over you.”

Credence inhales sharply through his nose.

“I would like that,” he says. 

“Good,” Mr. Graves says.

He looks up at Credence and smiles a little, but not too much. His hands rest on the back of Credence’s head and he’s still moving his fingers in Credence’s hair. The light makes Mr. Graves’ eyes look so warm and brown. His stubble, which is barely there, seems to have a bit of silver in it to match his hair. He’s so handsome that Credence actually feels short of breath.

He leans down and kisses Mr. Graves again. Mr. Graves kisses him back.

Credence finally draws away and gets back on his own two feet, managing not to step on the pillow he left on the ground.

He blinks down at Mr. Graves and watches him adjust his underwear and tuck away his softened, but still thick, cock. He zips up and buttons his fly.

“I’ll straighten up the couch,” he says, “why don’t you grab whatever you want to take upstairs?”

Credence takes a hopping step over the pillow and bends to get his things off the coffee table and his shirt off the ground. He ties his shirt up so he can use it to carry all his other belongings. His phone and wallet hang heavy alongside the folded up corset.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. He’s still barefoot with his shirt open, but the pillows are arranged nicely on the sofa again. For some reason, this makes Credence bite down on a laugh.

Mr. Graves raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t ask Credence what he’s laughing at.

“The master bathroom is attached to my bedroom,” he says. “We could move there after, unless you’d like a drink or anything.”

“I’d like that,” Credence says. “I mean, being in your room.”

Mr. Graves smiles at him a bit lopsided. He still has Credence’s lipstick all over his mouth.

“I’d like it too, obviously,” he says. “I really… I’m still trying to wrap my head around you being here.” 

Mr. Graves gestures at Credence with one hand. “And looking like that.”

Credence chews on the inside of his lip. “I can’t quite believe I’m here either.”

“Well,” Mr. Graves says.

For a moment, he looks at Credence and there is something about the expression on his face that ties Credence’s stomach into knots. He feels frozen in place, his boots too heavy to lift. Then Mr. Graves turns away and Credence can breathe again.

“Follow me,” he says, before slipping around the end of the couch. Credence hurries after him, stomping his heavy boots across the hardwood floors once again.

The stairs, at least, are carpeted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what's gonna happen upstairs~
> 
> Find me on tumblr at jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com


	4. Drunk in Love by Beyoncé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shower scene.

> _ “We be all night, last thing I remember _
> 
> _ Is our beautiful bodies _
> 
> _ Grinding up in that club, drunk in love” _
> 
> — Beyoncé, Drunk in Love

The back of Mr. Graves’ shirt is still tucked into his pants, even though he has it opened at the front. This means that when he leads Credence upstairs, Credence has an excellent view of just how well Mr. Graves’ pants fit over the back of his thighs and the curve of his ass. When Credence looks at and thinks about other men, that usually isn’t his focus, but he can still appreciate a well-built backside when it’s right in front of him. 

Really, Mr. Graves has everything. Credence doesn’t think he could have imagined a more perfect man. 

Credence looks at Mr. Graves’ back pockets and thinks about kissing the man and tucking his hands into them.

They reach the second floor and Credence has to face Mr. Graves once more. They stand in a wide hallway with the same beautiful wood flooring as downstairs. It’s a bit hotter upstairs and all the doors around them are closed.

“That’s a guest room,” Mr. Graves says, pointing to one door, “and that’s another guest room. They share a bathroom, because I actually hate having guests. Then there’s a study, and my bedroom.”

“What’s that room?” Credence asks, pointing to the fifth door.

Mr. Graves laughs softly. “You know, if you and I make a regular thing out of this, maybe I’ll show you. But not tonight, alright?”

Credence looks at that door, which isn’t any different from the others.

Then Mr. Graves goes to his bedroom door and opens it, so Credence has to look away. Still, he cannot help but be curious after a statement like that.

The bedroom has cream-colored walls and, as Mr. Graves said, hardwood floors. But there are long rugs along each side of the bed as well. 

What Credence notices first, actually, is that it’s very clean and the bed looks bigger than any Credence has ever been in. It’s also the tallest he’s ever seen. There’s a huge wooden bed frame — tall legs, a solid headboard and an endboard built like fence posts — with a boxspring and mattress stacked on top. Credence is pretty sure there must be some kind of layer on top of the mattress as well, because it all looks stuffed to bursting under the sheets. It seems incredibly soft and there are a wonderful abundance of pillows. 

“You like it?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence realizes he’s staring at the bed and smiling like an idiot.

“Yes,” he says. 

“It’s my favorite thing in the whole damn house,” Mr. Graves says. “I love having a job where I can sleep in until two, if I want.”

Credence looks at Mr. Graves then, unable to imagine him as a layabout. He’s so fit; he owns a business and Newt says he works every day. He certainly looks like a man who works all the time, in his suits and ties.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Mr. Graves says. “I rarely get to sleep until after 8 a.m.”

“That sounds awful,” Credence says.

“It’s the life I chose,” Mr. Graves tells him. “When I get sick of it, I figure I can just retire.”

“Oh,” Credence says. “That’s not so awful, I suppose.”

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Graves says.

“Now,” he adds, “let me show you the bathroom. I’m ready to get this lipstick off my face. No offense, of course, I just think it’s more your color than mine.”

Credence follows Mr. Graves across the bedroom floor to one of two doors opposite the foot of the bed. He pushes down the handle and opens the door to the biggest, fanciest bathroom Credence has ever seen. There’s a marble floor and a wide marble counter with a huge glass bowl of a sink set into it.

“You don’t have a tub?” Credence asks.

Half the room has a clear glass door separating it and while the shower is very, very big, Credence is still surprised.

“I don’t really like baths,” Mr. Graves says. “Do you?”

“I prefer showers,” Credence says. 

“Are you just saying that, though?” Mr. Graves asks. 

“No!” Credence protests immediately. For a moment, he considers actually telling Mr. Graves that he’s made an almost daily routine of masturbating in the shower while thinking about him. But that seems unhinged even to Credence, who knows he can be rather naive.

Desperate to look at anything that’s not the shower or Mr. Graves, Credence ends up catching sight of his own reflection. The whole area around his mouth, from his upper lip down to his chin, is pink with smeared and rubbed-off lipstick. There’s no red at all left on his lips. The dark makeup around his eyes has also bled around the edges. There’s a drip of grey at the corner of his eye and grey everywhere on his eyelids.

He looks worse than ever.

When Mr. Graves puts an arm around Credence’s waist, he startles. 

“You look so different,” Mr. Graves says. Credence turns his head to look at him. 

“I mean that in the best way,” the man adds. “I thought you were beautiful from the first moment I saw you, but you also looked like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.” 

Mr. Graves laughs in this way that’s only a shake of his shoulders. “You were obviously curious, looking at everyone around you, but it was like you had never found something worth smiling over in your life.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment,” Credence says, looking at Mr. Graves with his brows drawn together.

“It’s a compliment,” Mr. Graves tells him. “I swear.”

“And do I look like I have something worth smiling over now?” Credence asks.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Graves says. “Though you still seem like you’re going to make me work for it.”

He smiles in a slightly uneven way, which Credence thinks is a smirk. It isn’t cruel, it’s even kind of charming. Credence finds himself smiling in return.

“See?” Mr. Graves says.

He puts a hand to Credence’s cheek with his thumb against Credence’s chin.

“And I don’t even know what I’ve done to earn that,” Mr. Graves says.

Mr. Graves looks him in the eye for a very long moment. All Credence does is breathe. He feels Mr. Graves’ arm against his back, his hand against Credence’s bare skin at his side. Credence’s breath shivers against his ribs every time he inhales. 

“I want to kiss you,” Credence says.

That’s enough to have Mr. Graves lean in and close the space between them. Shoulder to shoulder, they don’t quite fit together. But when Mr. Graves moves, his arm around Credence pulls their bodies together. Credence’s nose presses against Mr. Graves’ cheek and their mouths meet again and again. Mr. Graves licks into Credence’s open mouth and Credence catches his tongue lightly with his teeth. Mr. Graves groans. 

Credence clutches both hands against Mr. Graves’ shoulders. In the gap of his open shirt, Mr. Graves’ naked chest presses against Credence’s skin. He can feel the buttons on Mr. Graves’ clothes digging into his ribs.

The back of Credence’s thighs bumps into the sink counter. He startles away from Mr. Graves’ kiss, realizing that the man has him pinned.

He doesn’t mind it, actually.

Mr. Graves puts his hands on the bathroom counter, on either side of Credence’s legs, and leans back. He looks up at Credence, who has been bent over to kiss him. 

“I doubt it’ll be as impressive as the first, but would you like another private show?” Mr. Graves asks.

For a moment, Credence feels struck mute.

“Yes,” he says, finally. “Yes, please.”

Mr. Graves steps away from him then, and Credence misses the heat of his body pressed against him.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. “It can get a little boring without music.”

He reaches across his chest and pushes his vest off one shoulder. Then he does the same with the other side. Credence watches intently. Mr. Graves shrugs his vest off so that it catches at his elbows. When he straightens his arms, it falls right off him. 

“This isn’t boring at all,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves laughs, then, as he pulls his shirt loose from his pants. Credence feels breathless at the sight of his broad chest, barely covered. Mr. Graves sweeps his shirt off in one smooth movement and holds it in one hand. 

Mr. Graves looks even better than Credence remembers. He looks like he should be immortalized in marble at the Met. Credence wants to put his hands on him, fit his thumbs against the groove of Mr. Graves’ abdominal muscles and wrap his hands around his thick waist. The man’s hips peek over the waist of his pants and the elastic of his underwear fits right into the valley of muscle and skin. 

Credence blinks a few times, realizing that his eyes have started to dry out from staring. It’s just that he can see every little hair that goes up Mr. Graves’ belly and the stubble across his chest. 

There’s another groove that looks just perfect for Credence’s hands right at the start of Mr. Graves’ ribs, which are just as wide as his waist. But his shoulders are broader and he has what Credence thinks are simply perfect arms. He has muscle there, unlike Credence, but not too much. He looks very smooth, really, with just enough small freckles here and there to make it interesting. He looks so perfect, but in this light Credence can tell he is very real. 

His skin isn’t totally smooth, even. There are veins running up his forearms under the thick hair there. But Credence likes both those things.

Mr. Graves rests his hands on the waistband of his pants and it takes Credence a very long time to realize he’s not really doing anything. Credence has been very busy looking.

He glances up at Mr. Graves’ face and finds that Mr. Graves is looking right back at him, which feels terrible because Credence knows just how wretched he looks right now. 

Credence leans back and grabs at the edge of the counter.

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Nothing,” Credence says.

“I almost feel bad for teasing you, y’know?” Mr. Graves says. “After all, you’re so eager and you just had your mouth on my cock. But I have to admit, I like the way you look at me.”

Credence blinks. “I’m glad.”

He grips the counter harder when Mr. Graves undoes his pants and lets them fall. He steps out of them and then bends down to pull off his socks. Credence gets such a wonderful view of Mr. Graves’ back, just as well-muscled as the rest of him. It makes him feel a little short of breath.

Mr. Graves puts both hands on Credence’s thighs as he starts to stand up. He looks up at Credence from there and grins at him. 

Credence squeaks. There’s really no other way to describe the sound he makes. 

“You are a delight,” Mr. Graves says, still smiling at him. “I really can’t get enough of it.”

Credence feels shaken as Mr. Graves’ hands move up his body. He touches Credence’s hips, his waist, his ribs, even his nipples for a brief second, then his shoulders and neck. He ends up with Mr. Graves pressed close and pulling him down into a kiss. Credence kisses back eagerly.

He puts his hands on Mr. Graves’ arms. Then, because he can, because Mr. Graves’ body is pressed right up against him, he puts his hands on Mr. Graves’ waist and finds that perfect spot with both his thumbs. Credence squeezes with both hands. 

“There you go,” Mr. Graves says, pulling away from the kiss but not away from Credence.

“Can’t wait to unwrap you again,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence shivers.

“You’re not going to finish undressing?” he asks.

“Oh, for you, absolutely,” Mr. Graves says. 

He takes his hands off of Credence, but he stays close enough that Credence can keep his hands in place. He’s only a few inches away when he pulls down the elastic of his underwear.

Credence looks down in the space between their bodies and thinks, “I just had that in my mouth.”

His face starts to burn. 

Mr. Graves slips out of Credence’s hands and steps back to take his underwear off completely. Credence notices that the skin on his belly and thighs is a shade darker than the skin on his hips. Credence thinks about how much of Mr. Graves’ skin must regularly get sun to look like that and he blushes harder.

Mr. Graves just smiles at him.

“You’ve already seen all this at least once,” he says. “We’re hardly at the first introductions but you still look so overwhelmed.”

Credence can’t even formulate a response to that. He opens his mouth, but then lifts a hand to cover it.

“It’s alright,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m choosing to be flattered.”

“You should be,” Credence blurts out. His hand muffles his voice.

“Flattered and charmed,” Mr. Graves says.

He steps closer to Credence again, close enough to be touched.

“Now,” he says, “let’s get you out of all this.”

Before Credence can get his hands back in place at Mr. Graves’ sides, the man moves right out of his grasp. He kneels at Credence’s feet and unzips the side of his boot from the middle of his calf to his ankle. Credence only blinks. He watches Mr. Graves’ arms and shoulders, the back of his neck as he bows his head. 

All Credence has to is pick up his foot and Mr. Graves tugs his left boot off by the heel. Then the right one. 

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“You can’t exactly shower with them on,” Mr. Graves says.

He stands up. “And I couldn’t get these off of you, either, so they had to go.”

He slides his fingers under Credence’s leggings at his sides and Credence arches his back. There’s really nowhere for him to go, not with the sink counter at the back of his thighs. 

“This is my favorite part,” Mr. Graves says, his body pressing close to Credence’s.

If Credence wasn’t leaning back against the counter, their chests would be pressed together. Certainly Credence’s hips are pressed against Mr. Graves’ naked stomach.

Credence feels his breath catch at the back of his throat.

Mr. Graves gives him only enough space to open the zipper at the front of the leggings. He takes hold and tugs them down Credence’s hips to his thighs. 

He pulls the fabric forward once it’s low enough and Credence’s cock slips free and springs up, erect but not desperately hard. At least not yet. 

Mr. Graves looks down at it in such a focused way that Credence finds himself holding his breath.

“You’re not wearing anything under these,” Mr. Graves says.

He looks up at Credence’s face. “Are you?”

Credence shakes his head.

“Oh,” Mr. Graves says. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Credence has a great view of Mr. Graves’ shoulders and chest as he takes in a deep breath and lets it out all at once. He shakes himself a little and Credence watches a lock of hair fall into his face.

“Could I,” Mr. Graves starts, “I mean, I’d really like to just yank these off of you, right now, but I promise I won’t tear them. Or if I do, I’ll buy you new ones. You can borrow my clothes. You can fucking _have_ my clothes, just let me —” 

“Yes,” Credence says, and he nods his head violently just to be clear.

It’s not violent or rough like Credence expects; it’s just fast. One moment he’s leaning against the counter with Mr. Graves crowding him and the next Mr. Graves has him swept off his feet so extremely he sits back on the counter. The breath gets knocked right out of his chest.

Mr. Graves throws the leggings over his shoulder and kneels in front of Credence. 

The man takes hold of Credence’s ankles and looks up at him.

“You’re only, what? Six foot? Six foot two?” Mr. Graves asks. 

Credence shrugs. He can barely remember his birthday with Mr. Graves’ face so close to his hard dick.

“How come you’ve got about ten miles of legs?” Mr. Graves asks. “That just doesn’t seem mathematically feasible.”

“I think you are exaggerating slightly,” Credence says. 

Mr. Graves runs his hands up Credences’ calves and leans forward.

He kisses just the very tip of Credence’s cock and Credence gasps. He bucks his hips almost hard enough to slip off the edge of the counter. 

But Mr. Graves doesn’t do anything more than that. He lets go of Credence’s legs and stands up. 

“Your reactions to things are truly priceless,” he says. “I’m amazed.”

Credence lets out a shaky breath.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Come on,” Mr. Graves says, offering his hands to Credence. “How hot do you like your shower?”

“Hot,” Credence says. 

“Comfortable hot or boiling pasta hot?” Mr. Graves asks.

This makes Credence pull his brows together. “Comfortable.”

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. He pulls on the glass door. It swings smoothly open, and he gestures with his hand for Credence.

Credence steps over the short marble edge and into the shower. The first thing he notices is that the floor has a rough texture under his feet. It looks like marble, but feels like sand. He’s staring at the tile suspiciously when Mr. Graves steps in beside him and puts an arm around his waist. He’s close enough that Credence’s knuckles brush against Mr. Graves’ hip and Credence inhales sharply. 

He shies away just a few inches and puts his hand over his hard dick, pushing it up against his body.

Mr. Graves looks at him sideways, but doesn’t say anything.

To turn the shower on, Mr. Graves leans so far forward he’s almost bent in half with his hand gripping Credence’s side for support. He stands up quickly once the water is on. Credence couldn’t have missed the showerhead the size of a pizza tray, but he did miss the smaller things inset in the wall. 

“Oh,” he says. “Wow.”

This is the fanciest shower Credence has ever been in. He doesn’t know how to tell Mr. Graves that without seeming like an idiot.

“Give it a minute,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s always cold at first, but there’s a lot of space in here.”

Credence bites the inside of his lip. “You could kiss me to pass the time.”

“A wonderful idea,” Mr. Graves says. 

He crowds in close to Credence and Credence steps back slightly. But then Mr. Graves moves one hand to Credence’s shoulder and puts the other along his jaw. Credence leans into that, and Mr. Graves kisses him in a slow, open-mouthed way that makes Credence’s cock throb against his hand. It would be rude to just start touching himself while Mr. Graves kisses him, wouldn’t it?

He grinds himself against his own hand instead and whines into Mr. Graves’ mouth.

Mr. Graves’ hand moves slowly down Credence’s shoulder, following the length of his arm. He wraps his hand around Credence’s forearm and pulls his hand away from his cock. Credence makes a protest that gets muffled by Mr. Graves’ tongue in his mouth.

Mr. Graves grabs him by the hip and pulls Credence up against him so that his cock presses against Mr. Graves’ stomach. 

Credence doesn’t know exactly what sound he makes then, but it also gets muffled by Mr. Graves kissing him. He thrusts against Mr. Graves once and then catches himself. His legs quiver, but he doesn’t want to do anything he isn’t supposed to.

Mr. Graves pulls away from the kiss, but keeps his hand on Credence’s hip.

“Will you make noises like that even when I’m not kissing you?” he asks. 

Credence feels like he can’t catch his breath to answer, so he nods.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says. “Then I’m going to make you come before we get out of this shower.”

“Okay,” Credence says. He doesn’t think that will be much of a challenge.

Mr. Graves steps away and holds a hand under the shower stream.

“Why don’t you try it?” he asks, looking back at Credence. “Tell me if it’s too hot or not.”

Credence steps forward carefully and reaches out his hand as well. Credence has always used a foot to check if the water’s hot enough, because hot water against an open cut or blister stings. But his hands healed up weeks ago. 

At first, he jerks his hand back because it seems too hot, but then Credence tries again.

“It seems alright,” he says.

Mr. Graves gives him a long look. “Alright, if you think so.”

“I do,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves turns around to face him and lets the shower pour down over his shoulders and back. Credence realizes, finally, that the showerhead has been hung high enough that even Credence wouldn’t need to duck his head to get his hair wet. And then Mr. Graves reaches out and pulls him in. Credence squeezes his eyes shut against the spray of droplets that hits him right in the face. 

He’s being kissed. Credence kisses back. He tastes clean water on Mr. Graves’ lips. He gets some in his mouth. 

It doesn’t take long before Credence is soaking wet. Even his hair is wet and, with the heat of the water, it curls up and sticks to his forehead in weird ways. He sweeps it to the side when Mr. Graves stops kissing him.

“Okay,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence tries to open his eyes.

“I actually do have to get clean,” he says. “I’ve got lipstick in all sorts of places now.”

“Sorry,” Credence says. 

“Nah,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s a mark of a good time.”

The shower has a whole stack of shelves set into the corner holding all kinds of bottles and things. Credence doesn’t recognize any of the products, but they have deeply colored bottles and foreign names. He figures people with enough money don’t use Dove bar soap. Mr. Graves can afford much better than that.

Mr. Graves only looks away from him for a moment to grab one of the bottles. 

“This should be enough to get makeup off,” he says. He rubs his hands together until the soap turns into lather and then scrubs his face. The soap turns pinkish before he washes it off.

Credence sighs a little. He likes seeing Mr. Graves’ face no matter what and now there’s water clumping his eyelashes together so his eyes look even darker. But he sort of liked something about seeing his kisses all over Mr. Graves’ mouth. Now they’re gone in just a blink.

“How do I look?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Good,” Credence says. “Really good.”

“Did I miss any?” he asks.

Credence shakes his head and his hair sends little droplets of water flying.

Mr. Graves laughs slightly and offers the same bottle of soap to Credence.

“Here,” he says.

Credence holds his hands out and water pools in his palms. He mimics Mr. Graves as exactly as he can, rubbing his hands together and then against his face. He focuses on his mouth and chin, mostly.

“You’ve still got black around your eyes,” Mr. Graves tells him.

“I don’t want to get soap in my eyes,” Credence says. The soap smells like mint and he can just imagine how badly that would burn.

“Do you trust me?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

The next thing he knows, Mr. Graves grabs a washcloth off the shelf and wets it under the shower.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

Credence does what he’s told and feels Mr. Graves press the washcloth against his left eye. He’s very gentle, really. Even when Credence flinches, Mr. Graves stays steady. He drags the washcloth across Credence’s upper eyelid and then the lower once, then twice. He does the same to Credence’s right eye, with an extra swipe over the lower lid.

Credence expects that will be it, but Mr. Graves also scrubs his mouth, his chin, and the edge of his jaw. 

“There you are,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence blinks his eyes open. His face feels lit up by a hundred tiny electric shocks. He reaches up and touches his mouth with his fingertips.

“Do I need to tell you that you’re just as pretty with your makeup off?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence is fairly certain, from the way that Mr. Graves smiles at him, that he’s being teased.

“Yes,” he says. “Tell me I’m pretty, Mr. Graves.”

The man laughs and that’s so much of what Credence truly wants that he can’t help but smile. Mr. Graves puts his hands on Credence’s hips and holds him terribly close. 

“I think you’re very, very pretty, Credence.”

Then he kisses him and Credence’s whole body shudders. Mr. Graves kisses him and kisses him. At one point, his hands leave Credence’s hips and then come back slick with soap. He touches Credence’s sides and back. 

“Oh God,” Credence says, into Mr. Graves’ open mouth.

“Enjoying this?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Yes.”

He wants to be touched so badly and it feels like Mr. Graves’ hands reach him everywhere. They soap up the back of Credence’s neck and down his arms. They run down Credence’s back along the length of his spine. 

“Is this alright?” Mr. Graves asks, stopping right at Credence’s hips.

“Yes,” Credence breathes out. 

So he knows what’s coming, really, but he still gasps and his hips still buck forward when Mr. Graves grabs him with both hands. His teeth catch on Mr. Graves’ upper lip and he bites him lightly as the man moves both his hands over the curve of Credence’s ass. He’s never been touched like this, but he likes it.

By the time Mr. Graves’ fingers slide down the cleft of his ass, Credence has already started grinding his cock against Mr. Graves’ stomach. He can’t help himself, really, and Mr. Graves doesn’t tell him to stop. There’s water pouring down between their bodies. His cock moves so smoothly against Mr. Graves’ skin. He feels hot all over.

Mr. Graves touches his hole almost by accident, but Credence whines. Mr. Graves’ hands are hot. The water is hot. The soap makes the slide of skin against skin too easy.

“Please,” he says. He thinks about how well Mr. Graves’ fingers fit inside him before.

“What do you want, Credence?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence swallows and tries to catch his breath, but Mr. Graves continues to touch him just like that. Knowing that he’s being teased doesn’t make it any easier for Credence to keep his composure. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds onto Mr. Graves by his elbows.

“Please,” Credence says. His voice echoes off the bathroom walls and the glass door of the shower. He hears himself, high-pitched and rasping.

“Tell me what you need,” Mr. Graves says.

“Your fingers,” Credence says, “like before, please.”

“Where do you want my fingers, Credence?”

He touches Credence’s hole directly when he says that, and Credence thrusts so hard against him that Mr. Graves steps back slightly from the force. Credence stumbles forward after him. 

“Please,” Credence says. “Just like last time, inside me.”

Mr. Graves continues to tease him, touching him with only the tip of one finger.

“Please,” Credence says, louder and as forcefully as he dares.

“Did you really enjoy it that much?” Mr. Graves asks him.

“Yes,” Credence says.

Instead of pushing against Mr. Graves’ body, Credence tries to push back against just that one finger. Mr. Graves’ touch only slides against his skin. Credence groans in frustration.

“Do you touch yourself like this?” Mr. Graves asks. “Do you finger yourself when you’re jerking off, Credence?”

“Yes,” he says. “Sometimes.”

“Have you ever made yourself come just from it?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No,” Credence says.

“Have you tried?”

Again Credence says, “No.”

But he has to swallow before he can get the word out. He’s probably swallowing the shower water at this point, but he doesn’t care.

“That’s a pity,” Mr. Graves says. “I think it can feel really good.”

Credence had never really considered that Mr. Graves might enjoy that too, the way Credence does. Thinking about it, the sudden vivid image of Mr. Graves pushing two fingers inside himself while he strokes his cock, makes Credence’s dick throb. He doesn’t know how to move to relieve all the needs he has. He makes a long, low sound that catches twice in his throat.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Mr. Graves says. He kisses Credence’s open mouth. 

“I am incredibly seduced right now, Credence, good work,” Mr. Graves says, pulling away from the kiss.

Credence hears the pathetic sound he makes loud and clear.

“I want to give you what you want,” Mr. Graves says, “but —”

Credence groans and bites down on a lot of curses. He wants to tell Mr. Graves to fuck off, but that won’t get him what he wants. He doesn’t know what he has to do for Mr. Graves to give him what he wants.

“I have to know, first,” Mr. Graves says. “Does this make you feel bad afterwards? Because I only want to make you feel good.”

“Okay,” Credence says. 

“That’s not really an answer,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence groans again. “I do, sometimes feel bad, but other times I don’t. It felt good when you did it. I want that, please.”

He’d say anything if it would make Mr. Graves touch him.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. “Stay right here.”

He lets go of Credence entirely. He steps away. Without Mr. Graves’ body to hold onto, Credence realizes his knees are shaking. He feels so embarrassed.

He thought that he was used to self-denial. He’s certainly practiced it enough. But it’s different somehow, when it’s not Credence denying himself. Credence feels like he’s been at least half hard since he dropped into Mr. Graves’ lap on stage at Magic. That was hours ago.

Now, Credence has hit his limit. Everything feels very slow and smooth as he sinks down to the shower floor. He only sees Mr. Graves’ back. One moment he’s looking at the back of the man’s neck and the next he’s got a wonderful view of his naked behind. There’s a freckle under the curve of his left buttock, Credence notices.

Mr. Graves turns back around and even his softened cock looks beautiful to Credence.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence tries to push himself back up, but it’s hopeless. His foot slips and he goes down on his tailbone. He winces and groans. 

“No, don’t push yourself,” Mr. Graves says.

He kneels down in front of Credence and the angle of his body protects Credence from the shower spray almost entirely. Credence blinks and wipes the water off his face.

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Did you have anything to drink tonight?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence cringes at himself, but shakes his head. He doesn’t even have that excuse.

“That’s good,” Mr. Graves says. He sounds rather concerned, but Credence already knows he fucked up. 

“Just overwhelmed?” Mr. Graves asks. 

Credence nods his head. “Yes.”

“That’s fine,” Mr. Graves says. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes,” Credence says. 

He looks at Mr. Graves then and thinks he must look pathetic or crazy. He has never wanted anything as badly as he just wants Mr. Graves to put his fingers inside him and make him come. At least, in this exact second, Credence can’t think of anything he’s ever wanted more.

“Can you get up on your knees?” Mr. Graves asks. He looks at Credence just as he usually does, focused, with maybe a bit of a smirk. 

“Or do you want to lie down?”

“I can,” Credence says. He huffs out a breath and adjusts his weight. He puts his legs down and leans on his shins instead of back onto his hips.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. “This is a good angle. Don’t you think?”

Credence doesn’t know what he’s asking, really, until Mr. Graves puts a hand around Credence’s cock. 

His hand feels cool and slick around Credence’s dick, which hurts from how hard he is. Credence thrusts right into Mr. Graves’ fist. He chokes on his own breath.

“Yeah, this is a great angle,” Mr. Graves says.

He puts another hand between Credence’s legs, reaching back behind his balls. He teases Credence again, with just fingertips against his hole. His fingers are slippery with something and Credence doesn’t even care what it is.

Mr. Graves looks him right in the eye as he strokes Credence’s cock and touches his hole. He can barely stand it, but Credence could just shut his eyes. He doesn’t.

He puts his arms around Mr. Graves’ shoulders instead and just tries to breathe.

“Please,” he says.

When Mr. Graves finally pushes his fingertip, and only his fingertip, into Credence, it doesn’t feel exactly the way it did before. It isn’t quite as easy. But past the first knuckle, or what feels like it to Credence, it gets easier. It still feels different, better than when he does it himself. His breath hitches in his chest. Mr. Graves’ finger moves inside him, curling and pulling. Credence can’t catch his breath no matter how hard he tries.

“Yes,” Credence says.

Again, “Yes.”

He wants to swear and curse and pray. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s not as easy or comfortable as it was before. Credence can’t quite relax, because he wants to come so badly. He’s shivering and can’t stop.

He closes his eyes and leans into Mr. Graves. Their foreheads bump, and his nose gets pushed up against Mr. Graves’ nose. Somehow Mr. Graves turns this into an open-mouthed kiss. He steals what little breath is left in Credence’s lungs. 

Credence moans and feels his body squeeze Mr. Graves’ finger tight inside him. When he exhales again, it’s with a groan. His hips jerk as he comes in Mr. Graves’ hand. He feels like he’s choking. 

But Mr. Graves kisses him through all of it, no matter that Credence’s teeth catch on his tongue and he makes all kinds of awful sounds. 

Mr. Graves keeps touching him even after it’s over. Credence lets himself be kissed and goes very quiet and still. Maybe he’s still shivering a little, but that’s all.

He tries to hold onto Mr. Graves when the man pulls away from kissing him.

“Did that feel good?” Mr. Graves asks. “Or just overwhelming?”

Credence thinks about this as Mr. Graves stops touching his cock, but doesn’t take his finger out of Credence’s body. Disgust with himself washes through him, even though he told Mr. Graves it wouldn’t. He’s just grateful that Mr. Graves wants to touch him like this, because it feels even better when Mr. Graves does it.

Credence licks his lips.

“Both, I think,” he says. 

“Good,” Mr. Graves says.

He takes his other hand away and Credence sighs.

“Don’t get up,” Mr. Graves says before he stands. 

Credence squints into the shower spray to watch Mr. Graves mess around with all those bottles on the shelves. He grabs the washcloth again as well — at least Credence thinks it’s the same one. Then Mr. Graves kneels down again and sets a few bottles on the shower floor.

“We haven’t exactly had a chance to get to know each other,” Mr. Graves says. “So, vanilla, grapefruit, or bourbon?”

“What?” Credence asks.

“A friend of mine likes to buy me ridiculous body wash every year at Christmas,” he says. “So you get to pick.”

“Vanilla,” Credence says, because the other two seem too strange.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. He picks up a blue and white bottle and pops it open with one hand. 

The vanilla smell isn’t very strong, which Credence is grateful for. Mr. Graves rubs his hands together and then puts them on Credence’s shoulders. He works his way down Credence’s arms, then moves right to Credence’s chest. He moves in close and puts his arms around Credence to soap up his back.

He puts his hands on Credence’s butt even though he’s resting it on his heels. Credence looks him right in the eye when he does it this time. Mr. Graves grins at Credence and Credence sort of smiles back. 

“I apologize if this is inappropriate,” Mr. Graves says. “But I couldn’t miss the opportunity.”

“I like it,” Credence says. 

Mr. Graves digs his fingers into Credence’s skin, groping him hard enough to make Credence squeak in the back of his throat.

“I like it too,” Mr. Graves says.

He moves his soapy hands over Credence’s legs and then between them, but Credence finds he’s not as tender as he thinks he is. It feels good to be touched and Mr. Graves knows how to touch him more gently than Credence touches himself. 

“Think you could stand up now?” Mr. Graves asks, after a while of just touching the insides of Credence’s thighs.

“Maybe,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves stands up first and offers his hands to Credence. His hair is wet and falls into his eyes when he leans down. He looks very handsome this way, in Credence’s opinion at least. He grabs Mr. Graves’ arms and pulls himself up.

It feels good to rinse off all the soap with water that’s somehow still hot. Credence cannot even imagine how obscene Mr. Graves’ water bill must be.

“I could live in here,” he says, standing directly under the spray with Mr. Graves behind him.

“Oh really?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. “It’s big enough. I don’t take up much space.”

“That I can’t believe,” Mr. Graves says. 

“It’s true,” Credence says. 

For a moment, he considers telling Mr. Graves he’s been staying on Tina’s couch.  

“Your shoes alone take up more space than mine,” Mr. Graves says. He kisses Credence’s shoulders.

“No,” Credence says. “I’m sure you have more shoes than I do, so yours take up more space.”

“Fine,” Mr. Graves says. “You can have the shower then, I’ll just live in bed.”

“Alright,” Credence says. “You’ll be close enough that I could visit.”

Mr. Graves laughs slightly. 

“I’m ready to have you over for a visit as soon as you want,” he says.

“Oh,” Credence says.

He turns around, then, and there’s water pouring down him from head to toe. Everything smells faintly like cupcake icing, but only faintly. He’s warm all over, and Mr. Graves has both arms around Credence’s waist. This is so perfect, really, that he can’t quite believe it’s happening. 

But, as perfect as it is, Credence really would like to go to bed with Mr. Graves. 

Thinking about it makes his stomach turn inside out.

“I’m ready then,” he says.

When Mr. Graves raises his eyebrows at Credence a little stream of water runs down his forehead through the lines of his expression. This makes Credence smile. Apparently, his smile makes Mr. Graves pull him down into a kiss. 

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. “Stay here and I’ll get you a towel.”

Credence gets to stay under the hot water while Mr. Graves steps out into the cold, which isn’t actually that cold once Credence turns the shower off. He’s not sure he would be able to get it running again, but thankfully the water control is a lever that Credence only has to push toward the wall. He’s cautious about it, but he gets it right on the first try. Or he hopes he does.

“You didn’t have to turn the shower off,” Mr. Graves says from the other side of the glass door. It’s almost completely opaque with steam. The only clear parts are little lines where drops have rolled down the glass.

“I didn’t want to waste water,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves laughs a little. Then the shower door opens, and Mr. Graves stands there with a towel around his hips and another in his hand. 

“For you,” he says.

It’s softer than a hotel towel. It’s softer, even, than any quilt Credence has ever slept under. He rubs his hands against it for a moment before quickly drying his face and rubbing it over his hair.

“This is a really nice towel,” he says, drying his arms off before he wraps it high around his waist.

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves says. “I think so too.”

While Credence dries himself off more, he watches Mr. Graves dig around in his bathroom cabinets. 

“Spare toothbrush,” he says, setting it beside the sink. 

Credence watches Mr. Graves brush his teeth. He realizes that he’s never stood and watched someone else brush their teeth before. Is that unusual? He doesn’t know. The right side of Mr. Graves’ chest moves as he does it, and Credence feels sort of hypnotized by the way his muscles practically bounce.

“Go ahead and hang up your towel when you’re done,” Mr. Graves says before he leaves Credence alone in the bathroom.

Credence finishes drying off and then brushes his teeth in a hurry. He still tries to be thorough. He folds and hangs up his damp towel. Everything smells like mint and vanilla. 

Completely nude, Credence walks out of the bathroom and tells himself it’s not any worse than being naked in front of Mr. Graves any other way. 

But, of course, it is. The bedroom has all the lights on and Mr. Graves looks right at him once he’s past the bathroom door. To make matters even more stressful, Mr. Graves is already on the bed and he’s also completely nude. 

There is certainly a lot of him to see, and Credence is looking.

He steps very carefully toward the bed. When he notices that Mr. Graves’ gaze travels down from his face, Credence covers himself with one hand. But there is only so much he can do. Mr. Graves still looks.

“Join me,” Mr. Graves says, turning onto his side and reaching out for Credence.

“Yes, sir,” Credence says, putting a knee up on the bed.

The mattress sinks down under his folded leg, and it’s incredibly soft. Credence presses his hand down against it and watches his weight create an impression in the bed.

“Wow.”

“I love it,” Mr. Graves says. He’s looking at Credence with half a smile.

“It's very soft,” Credence says.

He stretches out in the space beside Mr. Graves and folds his hands over his stomach. He's never done this before — been naked with someone else. It makes his heart race even though he's not hard anymore.

“I don't know if you want us to get to know each other,” Mr. Graves says, while leaning on his elbow and looking at Credence. “But I am still very curious how you came to live with one of my dancers. I had no idea.”

“I asked Newt not to tell you,” Credence admits. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Mr. Graves says. “Did he give you his number as well as a dance that night?”

“No,” Credence says. 

“Then how did you move in?” Mr. Graves asks.

While Credence thinks of the night he came to Tina’s house, Mr. Graves says, “It wasn't Craigslist, was it?”

He's teasing and Credence seems to know that, but it feels distant.

“Credence?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence shakes himself. He doesn't know if much time has passed, but it feels like it has.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You really don't have to tell me anything about yourself,” Mr. Graves says. “I'm just intrigued.”

“It's fine,” Credence says. “I moved in with them through Tina. She was my ride to and from the club on the night we met. She gave me her number.”

He glances over at Mr. Graves, who is still looking at him. He could lie. He could simply keep things very vague, which isn't technically a lie. He feels a lump forming in his throat.

“How did you get to Atlanta?” Credence asks instead.

“Oh, that is a long, long story,” Mr. Graves says.

“I’d like to hear it,” Credence says. “You said you lived in New York once, too.”

“You remember that?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence looks at him. “I remember everything about that night.”

“Oh dear,” Mr. Graves says. “Well, I grew up way up north, in Vermont. But my parents sent me to a boarding school in New York. It was very easy to get into the city, so I spent a lot of time there. I mean, it was always more interesting than school.”

“School was always interesting, when I went,” Credence says.

“Lucky for you,” Mr. Graves says. “I found it terribly dull. Clubs and sex and drugs and rock and roll — now that was interesting. I was very stupid when I was young, Credence.”

Credence doesn't know if he's supposed to agree with that.

“My parents found out that I wasn't exactly attending the school they'd sent me to,” Mr. Graves says, “and things kind of exploded on me. I went into the city and stayed with people I thought were my friends at the time, all of them much older than me.”

He continues, “I found ways to make money that I thought were very fun at the time and most of those ways involved being naked.”

“Was it actually fun?” Credence asks. “You don't make it sound so great.”

“It was fun sometimes,” Mr. Graves says. “When there was a connection or when it went very well, I think that's fun. I liked the dancing and the music. For a couple years, I really loved how easy it was to get drugs.”

He scowls down at Credence. “Do I have to tell you not to do drugs?”

“No, sir,” Credence says.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says. “New York can be very obvious about all the downsides of drug use.”

Credence nods. He can remember Mary Lou pulling him away from junkies on the sidewalks. He found himself doing the same thing to Modesty years later.

“Anyway, I told a friend of mine that I wanted to get away from all of it,” Mr. Graves says. “She said she wanted to go on a tour. She'd heard there were better places to make money — little industry towns and Army Bases. We got in a car and headed out of New York together.”

“Your friend,” Credence starts. “Is she the woman from the club?”

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says. “Seraphina. That's really her name, by the way. A real pistol. She’d flush my stash any time I managed to actually get anything in whatever backwater, bumfuck town we found a strip club in.

“I learned how to pour a perfect head of beer and how to make cheap mixed drinks even cheaper. Kept the creeps off Sera, which she appreciated.”

Credence listens patiently while Mr. Graves tells him about motel rooms and car repairs on the sides of freeways.

“Then we got to California,” Mr. Graves says. “It was warm and beautiful and much nicer. Also much more queer. I took up dancing again, but stopped dancing for women at all. Only stopped dancing entirely when I realized I made better tips behind the bar.”

“Really?” Credence asks. He can't imagine finding alcohol more interesting than Mr. Graves’ body. Now he's had a bit of experience with both, he knows which one he prefers absolutely.

Mr. Graves doesn’t confirm anything, but he does reach out and push the hair back off of Credence’s forehead.

“California is on the other side of the country,” Credence says. “How did you get here?”

“On a plane,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence’s eyebrows pull down over his eyes. He’s making the sort of face he wouldn’t ordinarily make at anyone, out of respect. But Mr. Graves smiles at him.

“Well,” Mr. Graves says. “I found out I hadn't actually been disinherited by my parents, but that’s not a very interesting story. I ended up with more money than I ever expected to have in my life and, well, Seraphina is originally from Georgia.”

Credence lies in Mr. Graves’ very soft bed with his hands on his stomach and his ankles crossed. He feels sort of like he’s floating, even though he doesn’t want to fall asleep. Still, he’s a bit tired. He can blame that for his thoughts about the hand of God directing Mr. Graves’ life in fortune so that Credence would cross paths with him. 

“And how did you get to Georgia?” Mr. Graves asks.

“On a plane,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves laughs. 

“I could just kiss you for that,” he says.

Credence turns his face toward Mr. Graves and says, “Please.”

Mr. Graves leans over him just enough to touch his lips against Credence’s. It’s a very light kiss.

“Really, though,” Mr. Graves says, “is that all?”

“It was my first time ever going on a plane,” Credence says. “The first time I’d ever left home like this. I came with my family, my mother, but I couldn’t go back.”

Mr. Graves looks at him and Credence doesn’t look away. He wants to. He doesn’t want to think about that time, or anything about the first week that he spent in Tina’s house. He wishes he could open his life up like a book and tear out those pages. 

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. 

In the silence afterwards, Credence realizes that Mr. Graves doesn’t expect him to say anything more. Even after everything that Mr. Graves told him, he’ll let Credence say only that little bit of information about himself.

It seems unfair.

“I’m glad that I stayed,” Credence says. “I like it here. I like Tina and Newt and Jacob and Queenie. Their house is much bigger than where I lived in New York and the couch is really comfortable.”

Mr. Graves raises an eyebrow at him.

“What?” Credence asks. It’s probably the couch comment, he realizes. 

“Nothing,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m glad you decided to stay too.”

“Did you think of me after that night?” Credence asks.

He unfolds his hands and reaches up for no clear reason. But Mr. Graves’ hair is loose and falls a little bit over his forehead now. Credence doesn’t fix it so much as run his fingers through it to make it even worse.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says. “I dare say I was completely obnoxious for a full week, at least according to Seraphina. I’m surprised Newt didn’t tell you, but then again he never bothered to tell me that you were still around.”

“I asked him not to,” Credence says again.

Mr. Graves looks curious, not angry like Credence expects.

“Do you mind if I ask you why?” Mr. Graves asks. “Not that you didn’t have your reasons, I’m sure. I’m only curious.”

Credence thinks of all the things he could say. The truth is too ugly to share, really. His face was too ugly to look at so many weeks ago. He was afraid. He was embarrassed. 

Time heals all wounds, but Credence remains embarrassed and afraid.

“You know what, you had your reasons and that’s enough for me,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m not going to kick you out for keeping them to yourself.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Credence says.

“Your face says otherwise,” Mr. Graves tells him. 

Credence doesn’t take his hand out of Mr. Graves hair, but he uses his other hand to cover his face.

“Now, now,” Mr. Graves says. “You can keep your secrets, but I’d rather you didn’t hide that lovely face away.”

He takes Credence by the wrist and leans in close enough to kiss. Credence leans up to meet him. Credence opens his mouth and touches the tip of his tongue to Mr. Graves’ mouth. Mr. Graves’ hair gives him something to hold onto as he pulls himself up. Mr. Graves puts an arm around Credence’s ribs. They wrap around each other so easily, with their mouths locked tight together.

Mr. Graves pulls on Credence and he ends up half on top of the man. 

It’s the sort of position that makes it easy for Credence to throw one leg over Mr. Graves’ hips. It’s a shock, feeling Mr. Graves naked beneath him. Credence gasps into Mr. Graves mouth as he rubs himself against the man’s body.

“Oh God,” he says, pulling away from the kiss with a wet pop of suction between their mouths. Everything tastes like toothpaste.

“I take it you’re not ready to sleep just yet,” Mr. Graves says.

“No,” Credence says.

“That’s fine with me,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence kisses him again and feels Mr. Graves move his hands up and down Credence’s back. His fingers dig into the muscles just below Credence’s neck for a while, then he traces Credence’s shoulderblades. Credence bites Mr. Graves’ lower lip when the man touches the small of his back so lightly that it tickles. But Mr. Graves only seems encouraged and he laughs into Credence’s mouth.

Mr. Graves moves his hands further down, until he can tuck his index fingers right into the line where Credence’s thighs meet his buttocks. Then he just rests his hands there, not squeezing or groping or anything. Credence finds himself moving his hips in hopeful little circles.

The way Mr. Graves moves his tongue over Credence’s lips and inside his mouth would be enough to get Credence half hard all over again, but they’re naked in bed with so much skin pressed together. Mr. Graves doesn’t seem to care that Credence gets harder every time either of them moves.

When Credence breaks the kiss again, he’s breathing heavily and feels the heat in his face.

“You are a delight,” Mr. Graves says, sounding a little out of breath himself.

It’s not the first time Mr. Graves has said that, but it still gives Credence such a thrill.

“I want you,” he says, looking down at Mr. Graves. 

“How do you want me?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence recalls, in that moment, his own internal debate about whether Mr. Graves was more attractive in his vests and dress shirts or in the more revealing and casual things he wore at the gym. Obviously that argument has been completely resolved: Mr. Graves looks best in nothing at all. How could Credence have thought otherwise?

“Every way possible,” Credence says. “However you want me.”

“Well, that’s a different issue, isn’t it?” Mr. Graves says, and Credence knows he’s being teased. He doesn’t like it.

“I just want you,” he insists. It’s not that difficult.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says.

He moves his hands to Credence’s hips before gently rolling both of them onto their sides. Credence puts an arm around Mr. Graves’ neck and pulls him close enough to kiss. Mr. Graves responds by pushing Credence onto his back against the bed. Credence bucks up against the weight of Mr. Graves’ body on top of him and Mr. Graves’ bears down just as hard, grinding his hips against Credence’s so that his thickening cock slides against Credence’s belly beside his own very hard dick.

Credence makes two frustrated and muffled noises into Mr. Graves mouth, the second much longer and louder than the first.

“I love kissing you,” Mr. Graves says. “But I hate not being able to hear you. I feel like I’m stifling you.”

“You’re not,” Credence says. He breathes even harder with Mr. Graves’ chest pushing his down into the soft bed.

“I’d like to kiss more of you,” Mr. Graves says. “Would you let me?”

“Yes,” Credence says, thinking of Mr. Graves’ mouth on his neck, on his chest, on his dick. “Please, yes.”

“Anywhere I want?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Everywhere you want,” Credence says.

“Now, now, we all say things sometimes in the heat of the moment,” Mr. Graves says.

“I mean it,” Credence says.

They look at each other for a moment.

“Or,” Credence says, not sure what exactly he would have been agreeing to before, “you could ask as you go?”

“That’s an idea,” Mr. Graves says. His eyes are so dark and his hair hangs down close enough to brush against Credence’s face.

“A good idea?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says, “I think so.”

He kisses Credence’s mouth again, so quickly that Credence lifts his head off the bed trying to chase the kiss.

“What if I start at your throat?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves puts his mouth right over Credence’s pulse and kisses him hard. He sucks Credence’s skin in between his teeth and it feels so good that Credence’s whole body jerks. He gasps. 

“I thought I’d get used to it,” Credence says, feeling shocked.

Mr. Graves huffs a laugh out against his skin and kisses him more gently, but only for a little while. Credence wonders how hard Mr. Graves would have to kiss him to leave him bruised. He wonders what that would look like. It might be ugly, on him, but he thinks he would still enjoy it.

“I’m going to kiss your shoulder,” Mr. Graves says. 

“Alright,” Credence says, though he’s a little sad to have Mr. Graves move on so soon. At least it seems soon.

Mr. Graves kisses down the side of Credence’s throat and catches his teeth on the muscle between his neck and his shoulder. Credence inhales sharply, then does it again when Mr. Graves nips his collarbone too.

“And your arm, then,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence unwraps his right arm from around Mr. Graves’ shoulders and holds it out for him, which seems to be enough of an answer. He shivers a little when Mr. Graves kisses the inside of his arm. The skin there is more sensitive than he knew. 

Then Mr. Graves presses his face into Credence’s armpit and Credence shouts.

Mr. Graves lifts his head and looks, from the smile on his face, delighted by Credence’s reaction. 

“Why did you —” Credence starts to ask. Then he changes his mind, “What was that?”

“You smell very nice, Credence,” Mr. Graves says. “Sort of like ice cream.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“Could I do it again?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence can feel his face burning, because he ought to object. It’s strange, isn’t it? Why would Mr. Graves want to smell him? Why would he want to kiss his arm, for that matter?

“Yes,” Credence says, and he moves his elbow to accommodate Mr. Graves. 

Mr. Grave presses his nose right in against Credence’s skin and hair, close enough that Credence can feel his warm breath. It makes him shift away from the sensation, but then Mr. Graves turns his face and kisses the inside of his arm again. 

He kisses down to Credence’s elbow, where he puts his mouth right against the veins under Credence’s skin and bites him. 

The air in Credence’s lungs shakes out of him.

Mr. Graves kisses his way to the bones of Credence’s wrist. He kisses his palm, then takes his hand and turns it to kiss the back of his hand and then his knuckles. Credence watches, amazed. 

His hands have always been ugly and certainly Mr. Graves noticed the old scars along Credence’s forearms. But he doesn’t even seem to be ignoring them or pretending to ignore them. It’s as though he genuinely wants to kiss all of Credence’s skin, even the scars.

Mr. Graves’ lips part against Credence’s knuckles and he feels the wet heat of Mr. Graves’ tongue against his hand. Credence doesn’t say anything and neither does Mr. Graves, but he uncurls two of his fingers. He touches Mr. Graves’ lips with his fingertips and Mr. Graves kisses them.

Those lips part and Mr. Graves touches the tip of his tongue to Credence’s fingertips. Credence stares. His fingers slide easily into Mr. Graves’ mouth. The man sucks on them, his eyes closing as his cheeks hollow in around Credence’s two fingers. He feels Mr. Graves’ tongue push between his fingers, splitting them apart inside his mouth. His tongue is hot against the webbing between Credence’s fingers. Credence is fairly certain he can feel the breath moving in Mr. Graves’ throat.

Then Mr. Graves takes him by the wrist and pulls Credence’s fingers out of his mouth.

Credence’s heart feels like he’s run a marathon and his cock wants to be where his fingers just were.

“How do you feel?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Good,” Credence says. His voice only cracks a little bit.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says.

“I’m thinking I’d like to kiss your chest some more,” he adds. “You seem to like that as much as I do.”

Credence swallows. “Yes.”

When Mr. Graves rearranges himself on top of Credence, he drags his hips and belly and all the skin in between against Credence’s cock. Credence thrusts up against Mr. Graves, his hips pushing up off the bed.

“That’s good,” Mr. Graves says, before he plants a wet kiss right in the center of Credence’s sternum.

Credence knows he’s still skinny. He’s always been mostly ribs, but Mr. Graves puts his hands on him and his fingers dig into Credence’s skin. Mr. Graves kisses his way over to Credence’s nipple, but then kisses a wide circle around it that makes Credence arch his back.

“Oh, please,” Credence says.

His nipple is a hard point before Mr. Graves even touches it. Mr. Graves looks at Credence for a moment before he puts his mouth over it. Credence groans at the heat of Mr. Graves’ tongue. 

Then Mr. Graves bites him. It’s light, but Credence shouts. He feels like he’s been shocked. The tip of his cock drips again his belly, against Mr. Graves’ skin where he presses down on him. Credence feels flushed from his chest to his scalp.

Mr. Graves’ teeth scrape over Credence’s nipple and he says, very softly, “Oh, fuck.”

The man pushes himself up off of Credence and he shivers, like he’s cold without their bodies pressed together.

“I’d like to,” Mr. Graves says.

“Okay,” Credence says. “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t think he could ask for it directly, but if he asks for it by accident that counts. Doesn’t it?

“Are you sure?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence bites the insides of his cheeks. 

“I think,” Mr. Graves says, “that I need to get something to drink. Would you like some water?”

“Maybe,” Credence says.

He doesn’t want Mr. Graves to leave, but the man gets up onto his knees and kneels over him. 

“Should I stay here?” Credence asks. He doesn’t know if he could really get out of bed, because he’s shaking a little too much to even push himself up onto his elbows without looking completely stupid.

“You should do whatever you want to, Credence,” he says. “I promise I’ll be back quickly.” 

Mr. Graves kisses him quickly on the cheek, then leaves the bedroom door open when he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that was fun and educational.
> 
> as always, I am on Tumblr at jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com
> 
> ETA: The next two chapters will be delayed updating because of technical problems for my editors and life stuff for me :( very sorry!!


	5. Sex With Me by Rihanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eat a peach. (The chapter where they're both freaks.)

> _“Sex with me so amazing_
> 
> _All this hard work, no vacation”_
> 
> — Rihanna, Sex With Me

Credence waits until Mr. Graves is out of sight before he rolls over in bed and muffles a shout into the pillows.

It feels quite good actually, and he doesn’t shake so much after he’s gotten some of his frustration out. He bites down on the fabric of Mr. Graves’ pillowcase and thrusts his hips against the very, very soft bedspread.

It’s not as good as being able to grind up against Mr. Graves’ solid, warm body, but it’s still pretty good. Or maybe Credence just needs it so badly. He puts his hand around his cock and tries not to jerk himself off too fast. He wants to come, but he also doesn’t want to come without Mr. Graves. It wouldn’t be as good, really.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

His whole body jerks when he looks over. He takes his hand off his cock immediately and presses his hips against the bed.

Before Credence can even form the thought of an apology, Mr. Graves says, “You’re really very good at this seduction thing, you know?” 

“Thank you,” Credence says, with the pillowcase still in the corner of his mouth.

Mr. Graves stands in the doorway and drinks from a glass of ice water.

“I brought you one too,” he says, lifting a second glass. 

He walks over and sets it on the table beside the bed. Credence reaches out with the hand he just took off his dick.

Mr. Graves sits on the edge of the bed while Credence tries to hold the glass without spilling it.

“You can sit up, if that’s easier,” he says. 

“I’m fine,” Credence tells him. He sips the water and finds he’s actually quite thirsty. The water’s cold enough to chill his whole body from his teeth down to his hips. Credence sets the glass back down.

“May I pick back up where I left off?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves’ fingers are cold against the nape of his neck. He traces the curve of Credence’s back.

“Jesus Christ, you’re gorgeous,” Mr. Graves says.

He leans over to set his empty glass on the bedside table beside Credence’s half-filled one, then bends even lower to kiss Credence’s shoulder blade. His mouth is ice cold against Credence’s skin.

A shiver runs down Credence’s whole back. 

“Is that cold?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence realizes that he knows, without seeing Mr. Graves’ face, that the man must be smirking. 

“A little,” Credence says.

“Let me warm my mouth up on you,” Mr. Graves says. Credence shivers again, but not from cold.

He kisses the back of Credence’s neck and then what feels like every knob and bump along Credence’s spine. Credence presses his face down into the pillow and takes deep, slow breaths. He wants so much more than kisses, but he’s not quite to the point of pleading for it.

Mr. Graves kisses all the way down to Credence’s hips and nips the skin just above the cleft of Credence’s ass. Credence makes a startled sound. 

“Oh,” Mr. Graves says. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Credence says, before he buries his face into the pillow as hard as he can.

“Well, I’m going to do it again to find out,” Mr. Graves says. “Is that alright?”

Credence lifts his head enough to say, “Fine.”

Then Mr. Graves bites him directly on his left buttock, as hard as a pinch. Credence yelps.

He looks over his shoulder at Mr. Graves, who rests his chin on Credence’s backside and grins at him so that Credence can see his teeth.

“What are you doing?” Credence asks.

“Teasing you,” Mr. Graves admits.

“Stop it,” Credence says.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says. “No more biting.”

“Biting is fine,” Credence says. “Just not… there.”

“What a shame,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s such a great butt. I want to take a bite out of it like it’s a sweet Georgia peach."

Credence smothers a laugh with his tightly clenched jaw.

“That’s a good one, isn’t it?” Mr. Graves says.  

“It’s awful,” Credence tells him. He doesn’t even worry that Mr. Graves will be insulted. Or, he worries a little — but only after he’s said it. 

“You really do have an amazing body,” Mr. Graves says. “That’s not teasing. I find you incredibly attractive."

There is a focus to his gaze and Credence can see his eyes moving. He can’t pretend that Mr. Graves isn’t looking at him. Credence’s face heats up and he looks away from Mr. Graves.

From this angle, he must be able to see every scar and blemish on Credence’s body. Credence can certainly see every freckle and silver hair on Mr. Graves'. He loves it, of course, but the price to be paid is that Mr. Graves will see the pitted scars across Credence’s back and the mosquito bite still healing on his leg. There’s the scar that’s crawled up his back since he was ten and the belt buckle caught him across the hips.

Thinking about this makes Credence want to curl in on himself. He wants to sink into the bed and be swallowed up by soft blankets. He doesn’t want Mr. Graves to see him. 

“If you don’t want teeth here,” Mr. Graves says, cupping a hand over Credence’s buttock. “What about tongue?” 

This jolts Credence right out of his own thoughts. 

“What?” he asks into the pillow. 

“Could I kiss you here?” Mr. Graves asks. He moves his hand over the shape of Credence’s backside to demonstrate.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“What about here?” Mr. Graves asks. He runs his fingers along the very edge of Credence’s cleft. It almost tickles.

“If you wanted to,” Credence says. He can feel his heart racing again.

Mr. Graves reaches between his legs and touches the flat space behind Credence’s balls. It’s a very intimate place that Credence has not thought much about. But when Mr. Graves touches him there, even lightly, Credence tilts his hips just a little to follow the movement of Mr. Graves’ hand.

“Yes,” he says, because even that soft touch feels surprisingly good.

Mr. Graves moves his fingers up and up until he brushes over Credence’s hole. It makes the breath hitch in Credence’s chest. The muscles in his back and legs seize up. His hands clench into fists.

“What about here?” Mr. Graves asks. His voice is very low, almost a whisper. The pounding of Credence’s own heart seems louder. Mr. Graves’ fingers are still on his hole.

“Why would you —” Credence starts. “People don’t _do_ that.”

“I’d like to,” Mr. Graves says.

“But that’s just,” Credence has to stop and swallow. He feels like he’s choking.

“That’s just in pornography,” he says. “People don’t really do that.”

There’s a question here that he cannot bring himself to ask. People don’t really do that, _do they_? It seems too filthy to be real. The kind of thing that would damn him forever. It shouldn’t thrill him. It does.

“Maybe I’ve been in porn,” Mr. Graves says. “What’s wrong with that?” 

“Oh my God,” Credence says. The blasphemy pops out of his mouth at the very thought. He can feel the heat in his face flooding his ears completely and traveling down the back of his neck.

“You’re pink as a peach, too,” Mr. Graves says. He could be teasing, but his voice is still that low whisper.

“You’re really serious?” Credence asks. Now he’s thinking about it, about what it might feel like to have Mr. Graves’ hot mouth between his legs. It makes his dick throb against the bed.

“Completely,” Mr. Graves says.

When Credence falls silent, Mr. Graves adds details, “I’ve been thinking about it since I made you come with my fingers inside you. You seemed to enjoy that very much and I couldn’t help but wonder how sensitive you might be.”

Credence laughs slightly, though he couldn’t say why. He can’t quite catch his breath afterwards.

“You’ve really never gotten off without touching your cock?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence shakes his head into the pillow. “No.”

“I’ll say from experience,” Mr. Graves says, “it’s really something. I’d like you to experience it someday.”

Credence huffs a huge breath into the pillow at the very thought.

“Yes,” he says.

“Yes?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence makes a shuddering noise into the pillow trying to make his tongue form words. He shakes himself and rubs his hot face against the pillowcase.

“I want you to kiss me there,” Credence says. “Everywhere. Anywhere.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves says. “I promise to go slow.”

He kisses Credence’s spine at the top of his hips and then the little dip above his tailbone. Credence can feel Mr. Graves’ breath against his skin. The bed shifts under him as Mr. Graves moves on top of his outstretched legs. Then Mr. Graves puts his knee down between Credence’s; it’s so easy for Credence to spread his thighs so Mr. Graves can fit between them.

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves says, again.

He touches Credence with both hands, moving them over his skin from his hips to the middle of Credence’s thighs and back again. He stops right at the curve of Credence’s butt. Mr. Graves kisses him lightly right above where he touches Credence with his right hand.

Mr. Graves breathes on him and it must be purposeful. Credence shouldn’t be so worked up over nothing but the heat of Mr. Graves’ breath. Mr. Graves’ hands spread him open and Credence feels the man sigh. It’s almost too intimate for Credence to bear. Credence bites down on the insides of his mouth to keep quiet.

There is a chance, Credence thinks, that Mr. Graves is just _looking_ at him. It’s a horrifying thought.

And it disappears at the first press of Mr. Graves’ lips to that flat, empty space between Credence’s legs. Mr. Graves kisses down toward Credence’s balls. Credence shifts his hips back and forth, spreading his legs wider and grinding his cock against the bed.

Mr. Graves follows his kisses with the flat of his tongue and Credence moves his hips to follow the heat of that mouth. He groans and pants into the pillow while Mr. Graves licks his balls and his inner thighs just the same.

Credence notices Mr. Graves moving gradually higher with each stroke of his tongue. He braces himself for what he knows will come. He breathes hard and swallows so he doesn’t drool onto the pillow case. He tries to imagine what it will feel like so that he won’t embarrass himself when it happens.

But then Mr. Graves drags his tongue over Credence’s hole, finally, and Credence absolutely embarrasses himself. He shouts. His hips jerk violently against Mr. Graves’ hands.

Mr. Graves doesn’t move for a moment after that.

Credence lies as still as he can while breathing so hard.

“Is it too much?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No,” Credence says, in this awful, whining voice he hardly recognizes as his own.

“Should I keep going?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence’s voice quivers when he says, “Yes.”

Mr. Graves adjusts his hold on Credence and rests his elbows against the back of his thighs. Credence can feel his breath, hot and wet. Mr. Graves’ tongue goes over him slowly. He pauses. He licks Credence again.

Credence buries his face into the pillow. This feels better than he had imagined.

Another slow swipe of Mr. Graves’ tongue is followed by a shorter, faster one that makes Credence yelp. Mr. Graves must take that as encouragement, because he licks again and again. Credence’s hips move no matter how hard he clenches his fists and wills himself to be still. He doesn't even know if he's trying to push up against Mr. Graves’ face or down against the bed. 

Both feel good.

Credence can feel a wet streak forming on the bedspread where the head of his cock rubs against it.

Mr. Graves licks him with the point of his tongue then, almost like he could press it inside Credence’s body. Credence tenses. But Mr. Graves doesn't pause and Credence doesn't want him to. The longer Mr. Graves moves his tongue against Credence’s hole, the more sensitive he feels to it. It's not something he can get used to; it's more intense with every stroke. Also wetter.

Credence feels his breath hitch so hard he's almost hiccuping.

There's spit running down the inside of his thigh and over the base of his cock. He can hear the sound of Mr. Graves’ mouth moving against him. These are obscene sounds — too loud, but still not loud enough to drown out the little whining sounds that Credence tries to muffle in the pillow.  

Mr. Graves groans against Credence with his lips and tongue pressed flush to his hole. Credence feels that as much as he hears it. His thighs shake.

Mr. Graves doesn't stop. He just keeps at it until Credence’s little whines and hiccups are stretched out into a single, constant sound that comes from the back of Credence’s throat more than out of his mouth. Credence bites his own lip and screws his eyes shut so hard he sees spots of light in the darkness.

Mr. Graves’ tongue feels like it presses into him but not quite. It's an almost. Just like grinding against the sheets is almost enough to make Credence come.

But it's not enough.

Only _almost_ enough.

Then, Mr. Graves does press his tongue into him. Credence shoves his hips down hard against the bed. It’s very wet. The tip of his tongue is barely thicker than his fingers, but it changes the sensation.

The problem is that it’s still not enough. Credence already knows this. He wants something actually inside of him, something to fill him. But he doesn’t want this to stop. He clenches his fists in the bedspread and groans his frustrations into the pillow.

He wants this; it feels so good.

But grinding his cock against the bed while Mr. Graves puts just the tip of his tongue into him just isn’t _enough_.

“Fuck,” Credence says into the pillow. His throat feels raw.

“Please,” he tries to say, but the word is muffled. He turns his face and feels a wet spot of his own spit rub against his flushed cheek.

“Please,” he says.

It takes him another few breaths to say, “Mr. Graves.”

Mr. Graves groans again, now with his tongue inside of Credence. His nose is pressed to Credence’s tailbone and his chin digs into the space behind Credence’s balls. It’s closer than Credence even knew two bodies could be.

Credence doesn’t want to tell him to stop.

“Fuck me,” he says. “Please.”

Mr. Graves groans again and Credence echoes him. 

“Please, Mr. Graves, I can’t,” he says. “I want —”

He almost shouts when Mr. Graves stops suddenly and pulls away. He’s wet and the air seems cold compared to the heat of Mr. Graves’ mouth. Mr. Graves’ hands squeeze the top of his thighs. 

“Yes, Credence?” Mr. Graves asks, with a voice that sounds an octave deeper.

“Would you,” Credence starts. His mind feels as though it’s floating three feet above his head. He can’t think.

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asks. “Please.”

Mr. Graves moves his right hand just enough so that he can touch his thumb to Credence’s hole, still very wet with saliva. Credence makes a sharp, high-pitched sound.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes!” Credence says, louder than he meant to. “Yes, please.”

Mr. Graves moves until he’s sitting on top of Credence’s legs. The head of his cock brushes against Credence before he settles and the heavy weight of Mr. Graves’ dick touches the cleft of Credence’s ass. It feels even bigger than it looked. Credence’s shoulders jerk with tension.

“God,” Mr. Graves says. “You’re wound up so tight.”

He puts a hand on Credence’s back, and that makes Credence shiver all the way down his spine.

Then Mr. Graves moves off of him and Credence is left laying in the bed feeling like he could just explode if Mr. Graves touched him the right way. He watches Mr. Graves lean over him and pull open a drawer on the bedside table. He takes out a clear plastic bottle with a cap that snaps open under Mr. Graves’ thumb.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says. He’s breathing hard and, if Credence cranes his head back at just the right angle, he can see Mr. Graves’ hard dick hanging between his legs. It is definitely big, but he still wants it. He has never been so certain of anything. 

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence twists himself around so hard it hurts his ribs.

“Why?” he asks. His voice is so loud and so whiny. It scratches his throat down to his lungs, or at least feels like it does.

“Because I want it to be good for you,” Mr. Graves says. “I want to fuck you with my fingers until you’re wet and open for me and I can make you feel so good.”

Credence looks Mr. Graves right in the eye as he says this. He can see how red and wet Mr. Graves’ mouth is and how there’s spit all down his chin. His hair hangs to one side over his forehead so that his hairline looks crooked. Or maybe it’s always been a little crooked and Credence didn’t notice until he saw Mr. Graves’ hair all messed up. 

“I want that,” Credence says.

His words sound so faint to his own ears. He mostly hears the wet sound of Mr. Graves squeezing what Credence guesses is lubricant onto his hand. Credence’s cock twitches with the flex of his muscles. 

“Good,” Mr. Graves says.

“I want it right now,” Credence says. He lets himself be a little loud.

Mr. Graves sighs.

“I know you do,” he says. “And, Credence — I promise, I’ll give it to you.”

Credence narrows his eyes.

“But not right now?” Credence asks.

“Not right now,” Mr. Graves says.

As Credence watches, Mr. Graves slicks his cock with the lube in his hand and light catches on it so that it shines. Credence hiccups, which seems like such a bizarre reaction, but he can’t help himself. He can’t look away.

“What are you doing?” Credence asks.

That’s a ridiculous question, because Credence can obviously see Mr. Graves stroking his cock with one wet hand.

“Why do you need all that,” Credence says, “if you’re not going to — to fuck me.”

“Feels better this way,” Mr. Graves tells him. “And I forgot how much I get off on eating out someone who’s really enjoying himself.”

“You,” Credence starts to say. His voice dies in his throat as he watches Mr. Graves touch himself.

“Would you let me get off on you?” Mr. Graves asks. “Fuck, I just want to put you on your hands and knees and fuck your thighs.”

Credence moves, even though it means looking away from Mr. Graves. He tries to push up onto his hands first. It feels good to arch his back and grind his hips against the bed. But when Credence pulls his knees up under him, his left arm wobbles and it's just easier to fold down against the bed. He feels like his body bends at all the wrong angles. He's clumsy and feels exposed with his hips up in the air and his knees spread apart.

When he tries to look over his shoulder at Mr. Graves, he mostly sees his own body.

Credence puts his face back down against the pillow instead.

“Jesus Christ,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence’s whole body jerks at that and his cock taps his stomach.

“I was just talking dirty, Credence,” Mr. Graves says. “But would you really let me do that?”

His hand brushes against the side of Credence’s thigh and Credence shakes. All he wants right now is to be touched. He’s already thinking about Mr. Graves pressed against his back with their hips lined up and it wouldn’t be exactly what Credence wants, but maybe it would actually be better. He won’t say it, but he’s more scared than nervous.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says. He puts his hand on Credence’s thigh and pets him right up to his hip.

“Fuck,” he says. “You’re unbelievable.”

Credence can’t tell if that’s good or bad and he doesn’t want to look over his shoulder again.

“Do you want this?” Mr. Graves asks. “Will you let me just grind against you until I come?”

“Yes,” Credence says, though his voice is muffled by the pillow.

Mr. Graves’ hand squeezes his hip.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mr. Graves says again. “You're way too gorgeous to just… I don't deserve this.”

Credence wants to argue that, but before he can think of anything to say Mr. Graves continues.

“You don't still think you've got to seduce me, do you?” he asks. “Because I promise, you don't owe me anything, Credence. I just want to give you what you want.”

Credence sighs, pure frustration. This is enough for him to turn his head and now, actually, he can see Mr. Graves behind him. He can see the man’s hand on his hip.

His breath hitches before he can speak.

“I want you to hurry up,” he says.

“And,” he adds.

“And?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Get on top of me,” Credence says. He breathes hard a few times after he says it. He looks away from Mr. Graves and stares at the lamp on the bedside table. It’s got a nice brushed finish, Credence thinks, but it’s a little dusty.

Mr. Graves presses in close behind Credence. He moves his hand down to Credence’s thigh as he pushes his cock right against the cleft of Credence’s ass. It’s wet, but not cold, and Credence’s whole body jolts forward. But then, just so Mr. Graves knows he does want this, Credence pushes back against him. He feels Mr. Graves’ cock slide all the way up to his tailbone and the back of his thighs meet Mr. Graves’ legs.  

Mr. Graves leans over him. His arm comes down on the bed along Credence’s side and he kisses Credence between his shoulder blades.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says. Then he rolls his hips so that his cock slides right over Credence’s hole.

Credence sobs, that’s the only word for it. He can feel his cock dripping onto the bedspread, fluid running down the underside of the head. He wants Mr. Graves to touch him so badly.

“Fuck,” Mr. Graves says. He presses his whole body right up against Credence’s until his mouth is at the back of Credence’s neck. His cock feels so hot between their bodies. Lube slicks Credence up from his tailbone to his balls as Mr. Graves thrusts against him.

Credence can feel just how big Mr. Graves’ cock is. The way Mr. Graves moves, that has to be just how he would fuck Credence. How he _will_ fuck Credence. Credence clenches his teeth tight together and moans. His breath hisses through his front teeth.

“You feel so good, Credence,” Mr. Graves says. “You’re so beautiful, so fucking beautiful.”

Credence can’t string two words together with Mr. Graves’ body heavy and hot on top of him.

“Ah, fuck — the way you push back against me,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m not going to last another minute.”

“I want you,” Credence whines. “Please.”

Mr. Graves groans against his skin. His nose presses into the hair at the nape of Credence’s neck so Credence feels every harsh breath. Their bodies move together. Credence knows this is sex, even if Mr. Graves isn’t inside him. This is how it’s going to be.

It’s so good.

“Fuck me,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves’ hips jerk hard against him. The man digs his fingers into Credence’s thigh. Credence realizes he’s shaking underneath Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves moves higher up his body when he comes so that it runs hot and wet over Credence’s hips and down his back. He’s already sweating from the slide of Mr. Graves’ body against his skin. But this is so much. Credence squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s heavier against Credence’s back afterwards and Credence’s legs are so tired. He feels his knees sliding further apart on the bedspread. Slowly and softly, Credence eases down onto the bed with Mr. Graves on top of him.

He’s still so hard that it hurts.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says.

“Yes?” he asks, mouth against Credence’s hair.

“Would you,” Credence starts, “put your fingers inside me?”

Again, he thinks.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Graves says. “Anything you want, beautiful.”

Credence knows that’s not true. If Mr. Graves gave him what he wanted, things just now would have gone a bit differently.

Mr. Graves moves off of him slightly, reaching for something to the right. Credence turns his head on the pillow and sees Mr. Graves pick the bottle of lube off the bed. He pops it open and pours some onto his fingers.

“Do you want to stay on your stomach?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence blinks. That’s just too much to think about.

“I’d like to be able to see your face when you come,” Mr. Graves tells him.

“Alright,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves leans down on his elbow at Credence’s side, but when Credence tries to turn up onto his side he realizes his leg is caught under Mr. Graves.

“Oh,” Mr. Graves says. “Sorry.”

He turns onto his back and, somehow, they figure things out so that Mr. Graves faces him directly. His dark hair all hangs to one side and the shorter sides, full of silver, look bright in the lights of the room. He has very dark eyelashes and the warmest brown eyes. When Credence looks at Mr. Graves’ mouth now, all he can think about is all the places on his body it’s been and that makes his heart pound even harder. Credence’s heart feels like it could burst out of his chest every time he looks at Mr. Graves’ face for too long.

“You’re gorgeous,” Mr. Graves says.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

He doesn’t really know what to say to that or how to respond. He adds, “You too.”

But it feels ridiculous.

Mr. Graves smiles at him.

He puts his hands between Credence’s legs and Credence parts his thighs to make it easier.

“Why don’t you put your leg over mine?” Mr. Graves says. “Or higher, if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Credence feels more desperate than adventurous, but he folds his leg up so his bended knee rests on Mr. Graves’ hip. Mr. Graves’ wet fingertips touch his hole and move in a small circle. Credence shivers. He feels his hole tighten, and he hopes Mr. Graves won’t think he doesn’t want this. Because he does.

“Please,” he says.

Mr. Graves presses his finger against Credence’s hole and it slides in so easily that Credence sighs. It feels so good, just that. Mr. Graves curls his finger inside him until it feels like he’s pressing right at the back of Credence’s cock. Credence tenses up around Mr. Graves’ finger. His balls pull tighter to his body. His cock drips onto the bed.

That doesn’t seem to discourage Mr. Graves, who moves just the one finger inside Credence until he moans and pushes his hips forward.

“Wow,” Mr. Graves says, his voice very soft.

“More,” Credence says. “Please.”

Credence regrets saying that when Mr. Graves starts to pull his finger out. He whines at the back of his throat and tries to push back against the curve of Mr. Graves’ hand. Instead, he gets a second fingertip.

Maybe it’s that Mr. Graves has wider hands and thicker fingers. Maybe it’s something in the lubricant he uses, or that he uses it at all. But Credence can’t stay quiet when Mr. Graves pushes two fingers into him. He’s always been able to stay quiet when he masturbates.

Mr. Graves’ two fingers feel even better. Credence feels noticeably filled, but it’s more pleasurable than strange now. He moves his hips when Mr. Graves curves his fingers. The pressure inside him feels good enough Credence thinks maybe he could come from it.

He already wants a third.

Mr. Graves moves his fingers in and out, but not too much. He does more with the angle of his wrist. He follows every direction that Credence moves his hips as he squirms. Credence breathes hard right in Mr. Graves’ face. He can’t keep his eyes open exactly, but between blinks he sees Mr. Graves watching him.

Everything seems very quiet except for the wet sound of Mr. Graves’ fingers moving in and out of his body and the small sounds that Credence makes at the back of his throat.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence opens his eyes and watches Mr. Graves lick his lips. He wants to kiss him. He knows where Mr. Graves has put his mouth, but he still wants to kiss him.

“Do you want me to touch your cock?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No,” Credence says, soft and breathless. He shakes his head just in case Mr. Graves couldn’t hear him. He licks his lips and thinks about Mr. Graves’ mouth. He also thinks about Mr. Graves’ cock, about how it would be so much thicker than his fingers and about how it would reach so much deeper. His body closes up around Mr. Graves’ fingers at the thought.

The muscles in Credence’s lower belly spasm. He feels his balls tighten up against his body. He’s coming, he realizes. It’s not as intense as it was when Mr. Graves had his hand around his cock. It’s softer, something that washes over him and through him in waves. His cock feels hot as semen spills out of the tip. Mr. Graves curves his fingers just so and Credence feels like he’s coming a second time, or that it just hasn’t stopped.

“Oh,” Credence says.

“Mr. Graves,” he says.

The man doesn’t stop and neither does this feeling. It’s like the press of Mr. Graves’ fingers pushes the orgasm out of him, slow and steady. The muscles of his stomach tense again. A shudder runs up his back and into his shoulders.

He’s warm all over, down to his fingertips and toes.

“Oh God,” Credence says.

“I’ll keep going,” Mr. Graves says. “Until you tell me to stop.”

Credence feels his toes curl. He presses a foot to the back of Mr. Graves’ thigh. His hips push forward and he feels Mr. Graves’ arm against his hip alongside his cock. He’s still coming somehow, even though his cock is starting to go soft. He can feel it, the sensation dropping off but continuing. Credence lets himself linger there for a count of ten.

“Okay,” he says. “Stop.”

Mr. Graves just stills.

He doesn’t pull his fingers out right away. He waits until Credence has almost caught his breath. Then he eases his hand away slowly. Credence feels Mr. Graves pulling away from him and he reaches out and grabs him.

Before he can think about it any further, he presses his face blindly against Mr. Graves’ face. His nose bumps into Mr. Graves cheek and he kisses the corner of his mouth. His stubble scratches half of Credence’s mouth.

“Don’t go,” Credence says.

“I’m only going to the bathroom,” Mr. Graves says.

“No,” Credence says.

He has Mr. Graves’ semen dried on his sweaty back and his own still wet on his belly. There’s lubricant gone sticky everywhere between his legs. Credence feels disgusting, but he’s also never felt better. He’s so relaxed.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says. “Would you like me to kiss you until you fall asleep?”

Credence sighs at the thought. “Yes.”

“Then you have to let me go brush my teeth,” Mr. Graves says. “I’ll get a washcloth too, so you don’t have to go to bed covered in come. It’s a hot thought, but you’d hate me in the morning.”

“No,” Credence says. “I won’t hate you.”

“All the same,” Mr. Graves says. “May I leave the bed?”

“I thought —”

Credence interrupts himself with a yawn.

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought you lived here.”

Mr. Graves laughs softly. “You’re a delight, Credence. And I’m going to the bathroom.”

He leaves the bed and Credence forces himself to sit up just so he can watch Mr. Graves walk across the room. Credence lies back down when he hears Mr. Graves turn on the sink tap. Credence stares at the ceiling and listens to the buzz of an electric toothbrush. The door to the bathroom closes, but Credence can still hear the toilet flush and then the faucet turn back on.

When the door opens again, Mr. Graves has a washcloth folded in his hands. He walks over and puts a knee up on the bed.

“May I?” he asks.

Credence looks up at him, at his face and then the washcloth. “Yes.”

The washcloth is hot against his stomach, then warm between his legs. It feels good actually, just rough enough to wipe Credence’s skin and hair clean.

“You’ll have to turn over for me to get your back,” Mr. Graves says, but then he actually swipes the washcloth up the cleft of Credence’s ass and makes him squeal.

By the time Mr. Graves actually cleans Credence’s back, the washcloth has gone cool. Still, it feels good even if it leaves him covered in goosebumps.

“There you go,” Mr. Graves says.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“Do you want a towel?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No,” Credence says. He sits up enough to get at his half-finished glass of water. It’s room temperature now, but Credence feels like it’s the best thing ever.

“Can I get you a refill?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves turns away and, for a moment, Credence thinks of following him. But it’s too much effort to get out of bed and Mr. Graves just goes to the bathroom again. If Credence leans just so in bed he can see Mr. Graves standing at the sink. He slips out of view briefly, then turns off the light and closes the bathroom door.

Credence’s glass is empty now. He sets it on the bedside table next to Mr. Graves’ glass.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t wear pajamas to sleep,” Mr. Graves says. “But if you do, I’m sure you can borrow some gym shorts or something.”

In his mind, Credence perfectly remembers the shape of Mr. Graves’ cock — which he can plainly see at the moment — behind the grey fabric of the shorts he was wearing at the boxing gym.

“Credence?” Mr. Graves asks.

He blinks. “I’m fine. I can sleep naked.”

He has never in his life slept naked, but there’s a lot of things Credence had never done in his life before Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves raises his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth tips up in a very handsome way. Credence smiles just a little in return. The man steps up to the edge of the bed and climbs up on his knees until he straddles Credence’s legs.

“And if you wake up with my cock hard against your thigh,” Mr. Graves says. “Is that fine?”

Credence’s eyes widen for a moment. He touches his thigh, imagining it.

“Yes,” he says.

“Well then,” Mr. Graves says, smiling. “I guess the only thing left to do is get under the covers.”

He says that, but he doesn’t get off of Credence before he starts pulling the bedspread down under Credence’s back. Even when Credence sits up and tries to get out of the way, Mr. Graves leans over him and kisses him. Credence puts his hands against Mr. Graves’ face and kisses him back. He tastes like toothpaste again.

The bedspread bunches up at the small of Credence’s back. He lets go of Mr. Graves only to lift himself up and tuck his legs under the bedspread and sheets. Everything feels smooth and cool against his skin, like silk.

“Oh,” he says, which is lost somewhat in Mr. Graves’ mouth.

Mr. Graves stops kissing him for a moment.

“Isn’t it great?” he asks. “Just cotton, but a really good threadcount.”

Credence doesn’t know what that means, but he likes how soft the sheets are. Mr. Graves slips in beside him, close enough to rest his thigh over Credence’s leg. He kisses Credence’s cheek.

“I think this is the best night of my life,” Credence says.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says. He kisses Credence’s lips softly, then kisses his cheek again.

Credence frowns. Not because he doesn’t enjoy Mr. Graves kissing him, that’s actually very pleasant. But he wants to know that Mr. Graves is feeling at least half as good as he’s made Credence feel. Mr. Graves kisses the space in front of his ear, then the corner of his jaw. There he pauses and sucks on Credence’s skin.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had someone spend the night,” Mr. Graves says. “I feel like you should know, just in case I snore.”

“I’ve never,” Credence starts to say, but of course Mr. Graves probably knows that. It’s probably obvious.

“I don’t mind,” he says, instead.

“That’s kind of you,” Mr. Graves says.

He’s kissing Credence’s neck now, so Credence tips his head toward his shoulder and turns his face a little to make that easier.

“I suppose I should say it’s been a while since I wanted anyone to spend the night,” he says. “Or since anyone wanted to spend the night with me.”

Credence doesn’t know what to say to that. Mr. Graves’ arm rests against his bare chest with his hand on Credence’s shoulder. Credence doesn’t know where to put his hands, so he keeps them at his sides. It’s very warm under the sheets. But not as warm as the living room couch can get when Credence is under the quilt with the air-conditioning turned off.

“That’s not very sexy, is it?” Mr. Graves says.

“What?” Credence asks.

“Ah,” Mr. Graves says. “Never mind then.”

Credence looks at the ceiling for a moment and says, “Alright.”

But it’s not really alright. He turns to look at Mr. Graves and bumps his chin into the man’s nose.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Mr. Graves tells him.

Credence barely has to move in order to press his lips against Mr. Graves’ mouth. He’s rewarded with a soft, easy kiss. His lips part and Mr. Graves licks them. He tastes like mint still. They kiss slowly in a way that forces Credence to breathe slowly too. His chest rises and falls under the weight of Mr. Graves’ arm.

He’s definitely falling asleep. He’s just not used to staying up so late. And sex is a lot more physically demanding than Credence thought it would be. He’s too warm, too relaxed not to fall asleep now.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against Mr. Graves’ mouth.

“I should be thanking you,” Mr. Graves says. He pulls away from their kiss just enough that Credence can hear him clearly. Credence wants to, but he can’t make himself open his eyes.

Mr. Graves kisses his mouth again. Then the tip of his nose. Then Credence’s chin. Then his mouth again.

Credence falls asleep as Mr. Graves kisses down to his throat again.

He doesn’t even notice it, really, and when he wakes up it’s so dark and warm that Credence thinks he’s still sleeping. He can’t see anything and he’s so comfortable.

But he really needs to pee. That’s how Credence knows he’s awake. He hasn’t moved at all, but Mr. Graves has. He’s still got an arm thrown over Credence under the sheets, but his hand rests lightly on Credence ribs. Credence doesn’t want to wake him, but he has to move.

As gently as he can, Credence inches to the side under the sheets. Mr. Graves doesn’t stir at all. He does snore, but it’s very soft. Credence finds it kind of cute actually. He smiles as his leg slides free from the sheets and he puts his foot down on the ground. The rest of him follows.

Once out of bed, Credence steps carefully forward in the dark.

He gets a bit turned around, trying to feel for a doorknob. When he reaches a wall, he feels it out and gets lucky. He opens the door softly, using both hands, and closes it just as softly. He feels for the light switch beside the door.

The sudden light hurts his eyes and Credence flinches, blinking back spots.

Of course, he finds he’s not in the bathroom at all. Credence sighs and rubs his face.

Well, he’ll be appropriately impressed with the size of Mr. Graves’ closet after he picks the right door. He can come back.

Credence turns off the light, finding everything that much darker afterward. He opens the door gently, but leaves it open as he walks the opposite direction toward the bathroom door. This time, he feels a little less lost.

He turns the light on there and can fully appreciate that, yes, as spacious as the bathroom is — Mr. Graves has a walk-in closet that’s even bigger.

Credence quickly uses the toilet and washes his hands. He digs his phone out of his clothes while he’s there and turns it on.

His phone immediately starts to buzz with messages from Tina.

“Did you get there safely?” reads the first one.

Then there are a lot — half of which read, “I guess you’ve already turned your phone off.”

But the last one was sent just a few minutes ago: “Took a quick nap, but I’m awake again if you need me.”

“I’m fine,” Credence types out. “Just woke up.”

“Good morning!” Tina replies immediately.

“Did you have fun?” she asks. “Did you remember to use a condom?”

“Yes to the fun,” Credence types out. “No to the condom.”

Tina’s reply is just his name in all-capital letters.

“I haven’t needed them yet,” he types out. His face feels flushed. He hopes Tina will just understand and he won’t have to tell her more.

“I regret asking,” Tina texts him, “but I’m glad you had fun. Are you going to stay longer?”

“Yes,” Credence replies.

“Call me when you need a ride,” Tina replies.

“I will,” Credence types out. But he’s wondering just how long he can stay before Mr. Graves wants him to leave. Newt said he works every night, but maybe Mr. Graves would let him stay until then. Credence could make him breakfast — or brunch.

Credence turns the light off, but takes his phone with him. He uses the glow of his phone’s screen to lead him back to the door of Mr. Graves’ closet. Credence knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He closes the closet door very quietly for that reason.

If Mr. Graves wakes and finds him here, though, he’s already prepared to lie. It will be easy to say he was looking for the bathroom and got turned around. It’s always smart to keep lies small, simple, and as close to the truth as Credence can manage. But he hopes he won’t have to lie at all. He hopes Mr. Graves sleeps soundly.

The closet is a room of its own, with a black leather bench in the middle and dark wood shelves and sections all around, all of them full of clothing. Credence walks around the whole perimeter of the room, careful not to touch anything. The bench makes a good place to set his phone where he won’t lose it.

“Wow,” he says, very softly. Then he looks over his shoulder at the door.

Mr. Graves owns so many jackets and pants and nice shirts that button up with stiff cuffs at the end of long, perfectly ironed sleeves. Credence feels like he’s in a department store — or the kind of sleek, steel-and-glass boutiques he used to see in Midtown where all the tourists and stockbrokers shopped. Mr. Graves owns a lot of vests, too, and they’re all on dark wooden hangers. He must wear a lot of black, Credence realizes, but there are some dark blues and grays as well.

Still, Credence thinks Mr. Graves could use some color in his wardrobe. At the very least, how is supposed to tell all of these black vests apart? There are so many.

Credence bends down to peer into the cubby holes along the floor and sees a lot of polished leather shoes. There are some tennis shoes as well. Mr. Graves owns easily ten times as many shoes as Credence.

Does he even wear all of this? Credence can’t help but wonder.

At the far end of the room, there are four canvas somethings. Credence doesn’t know what they are or what’s inside. He looks at them from the corner of his eye again and again. He walks around a few more times before curiosity wins out.

If Mr. Graves hasn’t woken up and caught him by now, Credence thinks.

Credence walks over to the first canvas thing and tugs on it. A whole wooden frame slides smoothly out of the wall so suddenly that Credence jumps backward in surprise. He’s never seen anything like this, but he immediately understands it when he looks inside. The structure is unique-looking, with four canvas bags pulled taut in a wooden frame, but it’s just a fancy laundry basket.

Credence can see where the canvas can be popped out of the frame and removed.

“Huh,” he says, wondering why Mr. Graves needs four laundry baskets in a built-in frame. But the man owns a lot of clothes and that would make for a lot of laundry. Maybe it makes sense, even if it feels excessive to Credence.

There are people who don’t even have homes or clean clothes, he thinks. But that’s an incredibly uncharitable thought.

Credence can’t figure out what’s in the first laundry basket, but it’s obvious Mr. Graves uses this system to separate his dark clothes from his whites.

He actually has to take a few steps to peer into the last laundry basket, because they’re all so massive.

Credence feels some more uncharitable things. He thinks about how he owns so little clothing he has to do laundry every week. He thinks about carrying all the laundry for four people down five blocks and spending his own quarters so that Modesty would have clean clothes. As much as he likes Mr. Graves, none of these are pleasant thoughts.

But at the top of the fourth laundry basket is an incredibly familiar pair of grey shorts. Credence’s thoughts leap suddenly from the sweat of New York City in August to a humid Atlanta gym with a concrete floor. That little back office is smaller than this closet, Credence realizes.

Credence rests one hand on the wooden frame when he leans down and grabs the pair of shorts by the drawstring and elastic waistband.

He looks over his shoulder at the closet door.

Then he stands up and holds the shorts with both hands. Really, these could be another pair of grey gym shorts. Mr. Graves owns so many clothes. How would Credence know for sure? But these seem so familiar.

Credence suddenly realizes that day wasn’t even a week ago. It seems like it’s been a month. It seems like this past month has lasted a year at least.

He knows what he’s doing as he lifts Mr. Graves’ dirty clothes up to his face, but if Credence thinks instead about the passage of time then he doesn’t have to reckon with his own actions. He presses the fabric against his face. It’s cotton-soft. He breathes deep and the acrid smell of old sweat stabs him right in the sinuses. Credence feels dizzy. He can taste the smell sourly at the back of his throat.

He feels his pulse right in his cock.

Credence drops the shorts so fast he practically throws them back into the laundry basket. He shoves at the wooden frame and it’s only the smooth roll of the whole thing that spares it from banging shut.

Credence’s whole body shakes as he breathes.

If he were the sort to swear, now is the time when he would. He looks back at the closet door again. But Mr. Graves isn’t there. No one is.

After a few minutes, Credence realizes he’s gotten away with it. His heart still pounds against his ribs, but he can breathe evenly now. He glances again. His hands shake as he picks up his phone. He turns off the light and opens the door as carefully as possible.

Credence knows he should go back to sleep. His phone says it’s not yet five in the morning, which is a normal time for him to be awake. But he stayed up late last night and he could at least be sharing the bed with Mr. Graves.

Just as Credence had hoped, Mr. Graves sleeps soundly. He stretches out into the space Credence left behind in his bed. Credence quietly walks over and watches him for a moment, illuminated by the glow of Credence’s phone. He looks handsome even with his face pressed against the fold of his arm.

But right now, Credence suspects that if he went anywhere near Mr. Graves’ naked body he would very quickly embarrass himself.

Credence turns and the light of his phone catches on the empty glasses at the bedside table. He should take care of those, if he’s up. He can at least take them to the kitchen. Credence saw the kitchen on the way to the living room when they came in. He could probably get there by himself.

But he can’t just walk around Mr. Graves’ house naked.

Credence sighs.

The process is tedious. He has to go to the bathroom again to get his leggings back on — while trying not to think about how it felt to have Mr. Graves yank them off him. He has to turn off the light and close the door as quietly as he opened it. He has to figure out how to hold his phone and two empty glasses and still open the bedroom door without incident.

Then he has to get downstairs in the dark without tripping and somehow find the kitchen on his own. At least this isn’t something Credence knows he shouldn’t do. He’s being helpful by leaving the empty glasses beside the sink.

When he goes back upstairs, finally, he feels as though he’s balanced the scales. He stands on the landing and looks at the bedroom door. Then he turns and looks at the _other_ door.

Mr. Graves had said Credence might find out what's in that room if he visited regularly. As lovely as that thought is — spending many more nights in Mr. Graves’ bed and getting to use that expansive shower and being kissed until his mouth feels bruised — Credence knows it's so unlikely that it might as well be impossible.

He doesn't think of an excuse before he goes to the door. If Mr. Graves catches him here in the hall or, worse, in this room, he'll just beg forgiveness and be grateful he put on his leggings.

Credence opens the door slowly and looks over his shoulder once more before he steps into the dark room. The floor under his feet isn’t carpeted.

He shuts the door as carefully as he opened it before he begins to look for a light switch. Credence starts to think it might be better to not turn on the lights at all when he finally finds it. The room floods with light from the walls rather than the ceiling, big bright spotlights that leave Credence blinking painfully. 

He looks around, but nothing is what Credence expects. He wasn’t sure what he thought was behind this door, but imagined it might be an office. Perhaps a bar? Instead, half the walls are covered in full-length mirrors. Credence has a great view of his bedhead and the red bruises Mr. Graves left on his neck and chest. He has to laugh slightly at himself, standing half naked in leggings that end a few inches above his ankles.

There’s very little in the room, but at the very center is a metal pole that goes from the floor to the ceiling. Credence isn’t completely ignorant.

He just wonders if Mr. Graves uses the pole himself or if it’s for other people. Credence stares at it and thinks about this for so long that it surprises him when he eventually notices there’s anything else in the room.

Well, there’s a folding room-divider made of wood and paper, like it’s Japanese or something.

Credence walks over to peek behind it just so he can think of something other than Mr. Graves and the pole.

He has to move the room divider just to stick his head behind it and it scrapes against the floor so loud that Credence startles. He steps away and looks at the door.

Nothing happens.

So Credence folds the room divider back a few feet.

There’s something hung from the ceiling — like a hammock stripped down to a few straps and a triangular bar above it. Credence has no idea what it is so he looks at everything else. There’s a treadmill with some plastic containers stacked on top and a metal rack with dumbbells and other weights on it.

“Huh,” Credence says, before looking back at the thing.

He walks up to it and touches one of the hanging pieces. It sways slightly at his touch, turning on the point that hangs from the ceiling. He looks up at the metal bar and the chain.

It looks like something that a person could sit on — or maybe it’s some acrobatic exercise device. But Credence thinks if he sat on the lowest strap that the highest one would hit right at his back. The lowest strap is already about level with his hips.

Really, it looks just like a playground swing made of black fabric.

Credence turns around and holds onto the chains with his hands.

If he’s going to be here, he might as well. He has a perfect view of the door from here. If he’s going to be in trouble with Mr. Graves, the man probably won’t be any angrier with him for this. Or so Credence hopes.

The higher strap does, in fact, fit perfectly against Credence’s back. He pushes off his feet and swings in a slow arc back and forth. He can see his reflection on the mirrored wall. It makes him laugh.

If the room divider was pushed completely out of the way, Credence would have the perfect view of the pole from this swing. He can easily imagine Mr. Graves leaning against it, his white shirt unbuttoned all the way.

He certainly knows how to move his body, Credence thinks.

Credence wouldn’t mind watching him do it. He enjoyed watching Mr. Graves brush his teeth. He enjoyed watching Mr. Graves at the boxing gym. Yes, he’d definitely enjoy this.

The swing has stopped moving, so Credence reaches out and grabs one of the other chains to pull himself up and give himself a push with one foot.

He holds onto the extra chain and wonders what it’s for. It’s not really the right height for a handhold. Maybe if Credence picked his feet up he could put them up on there, but he’s really have to spread his legs and fold his knees up.

It wouldn’t really be the most comfortable position, unless maybe he leaned back further.

Credence doesn’t have to do anything to think it through and, when he does, the realization runs through him like a shiver.

He puts his foot down and the swing stops suddenly.

Credence gets to his feet using both chains to lever himself up.

He looks behind him at the swing with narrowed eyes.

Flustered, Credence almost leaves the room without putting the room divider back in place or picking up his phone. The divider makes even more scraping noises when he moves it back into place. He nearly drops his phone when he picks it up. He’s wasted nearly an hour wandering around Mr. Graves’ house doing things he shouldn’t do.

But it feels worthwhile.

At the very least, Credence can comfort himself in the future with thoughts of Mr. Graves and his household stripper pole.

He sneaks back into the bedroom and Mr. Graves has moved right to the center of the bed. Credence sets his phone down on the bedside table and strips off his leggings. They’re really not comfortable enough to sleep in. He folds them loosely and puts them on top of his phone.

He lifts the covers and scowls at the shadow of Mr. Graves’ arm in the dark. He gently touches Mr. Graves’ wrist and the man doesn’t even stir, so Credence moves his hand up to the pillow and climbs into bed. There’s not a lot of space, but if he lies on his side he can fit between Mr. Graves and the edge of the mattress.

Mr. Graves moves his arm from the pillow under Credence’s head and drapes it over Credence’s ribs. The man makes a mumbled sound then sighs. His breath brushes against the back of Credence’s hair. His arm tightens and pulls Credence close enough that Mr. Graves’ nose touches the back of Credence’s neck and his back presses to Mr. Graves’ chest.

It’s terribly warm.

Mr. Graves makes another sound that’s not quite a word, then starts softly snoring again.

Credence doesn’t know what to do with himself so he shuts his eyes and breathes. He thinks about the weight of Mr. Graves’ arm on him. He imagines the man in his mind’s eye — memories blending with fantasies until he can’t tell what might have happened and what he maybe dreamed.

He falls asleep again. This time, he dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	6. Closer by Nine Inch Nails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning is technically any time before noon.

> _ “I wanna fuck you like an animal _
> 
> _ My whole existence is flawed _
> 
> _ You get me closer to God” _
> 
> — Nine Inch Nails, Closer

“Credence,” someone says. Not too loud, but loud enough to wake him.

He opens his eyes and he’s on his back in Mr. Graves’ very soft bed. Mr. Graves is beside him.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says. “Your phone’s been buzzing like crazy. Thought I should wake you.”

Credence groans softly.

He looks over and his leggings have been moved.

“Did you look at my phone?” he asks.

“No,” Mr. Graves says. “Just tried to figure out why your leggings were vibrating at eleven thirty in the morning.”

“Oh,” Credence says. He doesn’t know if he believes Mr. Graves, but his phone is still locked when he picks it up. Tina’s been texting him.

“I was sleeping,” he replies. “I swear I will call you when I need a ride.”

Then he turns his phone off and puts it back down.

“Do you want coffee?” Mr. Graves asks. “A shower?”

“I want —” Credence stops to think about this.

“To stay in bed,” he says.

Mr. Graves smirks at him. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Will you stay with me?” Credence asks.

“I would love to,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence stares at Mr. Graves with his head turned to the side until his neck starts to ache. Then, finally, he turns onto his shoulder and tucks his hand under the pillow. Even Mr. Graves’ face can’t distract him from his thoughts. If Mr. Graves really didn’t check Credence’s phone, then Credence feels even more guilty for sneaking around the man’s house going where he doesn’t belong.

“You really didn’t check my phone?” he asks.

“No reason to,” Mr. Graves says. “Would be rude anyway.”

Guilt settles on Credence’s chest like a physical weight. 

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Graves asks.

Mr. Graves sits up in bed, leaning on one elbow and looking down at Credence. His hair is unstyled, but damp and combed back. A few strands fall loose and he pushes them back with one hand.

“Credence?” he says.

“I have to tell you something,” Credence says. He knows that he shouldn’t tell Mr. Graves anything. This can and will only end badly for them both, really, but especially for Credence. There was still so much that he wanted to do.

“What is it?” Mr. Graves asks.

“I was up in the night — or the early morning,” Credence says.

“I noticed you took the glasses downstairs,” Mr. Graves says. “Thanks for that.”

Credence swallows.

“You shouldn’t,” he says, “thank me.”

Mr. Graves’ eyebrows pull together into a scowl and all of Credence’s fear turns into something cold and hard in the center of his stomach.

“What?” Mr. Graves asks. “Did you root through my medicine cabinets or something?” 

“No,” Credence says. He hadn’t thought to do that, actually.

Credence knows that he should confess, but the fear keeps him silent. Little by little, Mr. Graves’ face relaxes.

“Did you break something in the kitchen?” he asks.

“No!” Credence says. 

“Oh,” Mr. Graves says. “Okay, I give up. There’s a lot of trouble to get up to in this house, but if nothing’s broken then…”

He shrugs one shoulder.

“I went into your other room,” Credence says. 

“Which room?” Mr. Graves asks. 

Then he shuts his eyes and either sighs or laughs, Credence can’t tell.

“ _That_ room,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence waits for Mr. Graves’ reaction. His whole body feels tense. He doesn’t even blink.

“Okay, that kind of ruins the surprise,” he says, “but I’m not… Credence, are you alright?”

“Yes,” Credence says. His voice is a bit too high. He swallows.

“I usually make that room the end of the house tour, but you didn’t really get a tour,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s also not exactly the tidiest right now. I’m using it to hide all the clutter that doesn’t fit in the closets. But I mean, it’s just kind of boring otherwise.”

Mr. Graves looks at him. When Credence finally blinks, his eyes water.

“Aren’t you,” Credence takes a shaky breath, “upset with me?”

“No,” Mr. Graves says. “I mean, really, I would have liked to surprise you with it. Come on, how many people have a stripper pole in their house?”

“I don’t know anyone who does,” Credence admits. “But I don’t know that many people.”

Mr. Graves smiles at him, not even a smirk. It’s a real smile. He eases back down to the bed and Credence feels lighter somehow. His guts are still twisted up inside him, but he thinks he’s been forgiven.

“I liked the swing too,” Credence says. He looks at Mr. Graves sidelong.

Mr. Graves’ eyes widen, then shut. His hand lifts off the bed and he covers his face.

“Oh God, Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

The guilt spikes up from Credence’s belly to his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

Mr. Graves takes his hand away from his face and looks at Credence. He has that particular smirk on his face again.

“You know it’s a —” he begins to say. 

Mr. Graves stops. He sighs. He rubs his hand against his face once more.

“Never mind,” he says. “I’m glad you liked it.”

Rolling onto his back, Mr. Graves stares up at the ceiling and leaves Credence wondering what to do.

“I really am sorry,” Credence says. “I wasn’t even going to tell you about it, except…”

Actually, he’s not entirely sure why he told Mr. Graves. Was it only out of guilt?

“I’m glad you told me,” Mr. Graves says. He turns his face to look at Credence and, truly, he doesn’t look upset at all.

“Now I’ve got to stop talking,” he adds.

Credence blinks. “Why?”

“Because there’s a beautiful, naked man in my bed who just told me he likes my sex swing,” Mr. Graves says. 

He raises an eyebrow at Credence. “You know it’s a sex swing, right?”  

“I did realize that,” Credence says. “Eventually.”

Mr. Graves shakes the bed a little when he laughs and Credence can’t help but smile at that.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says.

“Yes?” Mr. Graves says.

“May I kiss you?” Credence asks.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence shuffles across the bed, moving his shoulders and arms until he can cup a hand against Mr. Graves’ face. The morning sun pours in through the windows. Mr. Graves is so handsome and he has a way of looking at Credence that makes him nervous. He closes his eyes before he kisses Mr. Graves.

The kiss starts out very softly. Credence presses his lips to Mr. Graves’ mouth, then pulls back and does it again. When Mr. Graves opens his mouth, Credence licks at his parted lips. He tastes mint toothpaste. He chases the taste until he’s sliding his tongue over Mr. Graves’ tongue. He touches the roof of the man’s mouth and all his teeth. He likes the feeling and something about the sharp flavor wakes Credence up better than coffee and breakfast.

He presses his mouth tight against Mr. Graves’, and his nose gets crushed against Mr. Graves’ cheek. His teeth catch on Mr. Graves’ lip. The man groans into Credence’s open mouth. 

Mr. Graves puts a hand against the middle of Credence’s back and pulls him close. Credence moves his leg and his thigh brushes against Mr. Graves’. He feels sparks running up his spine. 

When Credence pushes, Mr. Graves turns onto his back and pulls Credence with him. His soft cock presses against Mr. Graves’ dick. 

When Credence pulls away from the kiss, he’s breathing harder than he expects. He opens his eyes and looks down at Mr. Graves. The man has already shaved, Credence can see. He touches Mr. Graves’ smooth cheek and thinks about how there will be black stubble along his jaw and on his chin. 

He lets go of Mr. Graves and touches his own face.

Mr. Graves puts his hand over Credence’s against his cheek.

There’s a question caught at the back of his throat. He worries if he doesn’t ask it soon, he’ll never get another chance. But he also worries that Mr. Graves will tell him no again.

“You’re so beautiful,” Mr. Graves says.

“Mr. Graves, may I ask you for something?” Credence asks.

The man looks at Credence so intensely, then, that he can’t even breathe.

“What is it?” Mr. Graves asks him.

Credence swallows the lump in his throat and swears he can feel his own spit drop into his empty stomach like a pebble.

“Last night,” Credence says. 

Really, it was only hours ago.

“There are things you said you wanted to do,” he says. 

He takes a deep breath, not letting himself look away from Mr. Graves. 

“Do you think you’d like to do them now?” Credence asks.

Mr. Graves blinks just once while looking up at Credence.

“Are you asking if I want to fuck you?” he asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“I do,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence sighs softly, from relief.

“But Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

He’s frowning slightly, enough to make his forehead wrinkle. Credence finds himself frowning as well.

“Is that really what you want?” Mr. Graves asks. 

Credence frowns harder, feeling his face twist up in a scowl.

“It’s not always that comfortable the first time,” Mr. Graves says. “Or the first few times. I can try to make it good, but…”

When Mr. Graves goes quiet, Credence says, “We could —”

He stops and chews on his lower lip. “Do it a few times, then? Until it was good?”

This makes the tension melt off of Mr. Graves’ face. He even smiles. Credence sighs again, an even smaller breath.

“Alright,” he says. “But don’t you want to do this with someone — I don’t know — it’s your body, your choice. But I’m, well — wouldn’t you like to have a boyfriend and make your first time all special and awkward or something?”

“No,” Credence says. The thought is ridiculous. He almost wants to laugh, but that would be rude. 

“You’re sure?” Mr. Graves asks. “I don’t want you to do something you regret.”

Credence looks at Mr. Graves and the question falls out of his mouth before he can think it through.

“Do you regret it?” 

Mr. Graves looks away from him, then, and Credence feels like an idiot. He bends down and kisses the man’s cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t care. I want you.” 

“No, Credence, that’s a valid question,” Mr. Graves says. “I guess I do. I rushed into things. I was a lot younger than you are and I suppose I’m just projecting.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Credence admits.

“It means I’m assuming that you feel about me the way I used to feel about the people I wanted to fuck,” Mr. Graves says. “I’d like to think I’m more than a dirty old man trying to bone a kid who’s barely old enough to drink.”

Credence stops kissing Mr. Graves’ cheek and sits up enough that he can properly glare down at him.

The bedsheets slip down his back and the room is much cooler. Credence likes the way that feels so he sits up completely and lets the sheets and bedspread fall away. He settles his hips against Mr. Graves’ stomach.

Mr. Graves turns and looks up at his face, but then his eyes travel down Credence’s body.

“I am not a kid,” Credence says. 

“And maybe I’m the dirty one,” he adds.

He knows that he is. He’s the one who watched Mr. Graves when he didn’t even know Credence was there and then went home and masturbated over it for days. He’s the one who snuck around Mr. Graves’ house, smelling his dirty clothes and sitting on his  _sex swing_. Mr. Graves knows a little, but Credence has told Mr. Graves only a fraction of his sins. 

“Oh?” Mr. Graves says. He raises his eyebrows, but he’s not looking Credence in the eyes.

“Yes,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves reaches up with both hands and settles them on Credence’s hips. Credence touches his knuckles, then his wrists. He runs his hands over the hair on Mr. Graves’ arms. Then he touches Mr. Graves’ collar, the freshly shaved skin on his neck, the hair on his chest.

Every slow, even breath feels like an effort.

“I don’t want a boyfriend,” Credence says. Even the word sounds ridiculous. Chastity is the sort of person who wants a  _boyfriend_ — the kind of person who becomes a girl’s fiancé and then husband. That’s never been Credence’s path in life. It’s loneliness and guilt, he thinks, or this. 

And he’s damned for it, but he’s having a very nice time at least. He wants  _this_. 

He could even share with Mr. Graves some of the small, odd things that he thinks other people share. He got to shower with him and sleep beside him in bed. He watched him brush his teeth, which still seems so strangely intimate.

“You just want to have sex?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“Well,” Mr. Graves says, “then I’d be a fool to deny you.”

“Yes,” Credence says. He’s a little louder that time, from excitement.

Mr. Graves smiles up at him and wets his upper lip with his tongue. Credence wants to kiss him so badly.

“I’m a fool to deny myself this,” Mr. Graves says. “You’re really something, Credence.”

“Thank you,” he says. “May I kiss you?”

“Please do,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence bends down to press his mouth hard against Mr. Graves’. 

Mr. Graves’ hands move from his hips to grope his ass. Credence finds himself saying, “yes, yes” into Mr. Graves’ mouth. It’s mindless encouragement. He’s just thrilled at the thought of getting what he wants.

He gets tired of being folded up so severely, so Credence slowly eases back until his hips meet Mr. Graves’. Mr. Graves isn’t hard yet, but Credence has started to get hard. He rubs himself against Mr. Graves because he thinks he can get away with it.

Even though he’s not hard, Mr. Graves lifts his hips up off the bed under Credence. Credence laughs slightly against Mr. Graves’ mouth.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says into their kiss.

Credence pulls away.

“I need to get condoms,” Mr. Graves says.

“No, you don’t,” Credence says. 

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Graves says, “I do.”

Credence puts his elbows down on Mr. Graves’ chest to pin him down. But Mr. Graves tucks a hand under Credence’s left leg.

“Sorry about this,” Mr. Graves says. 

He yanks Credence’s leg up so quickly that it flips Credence onto his back. Mr. Graves sits up and gets out of bed while Credence is still catching his breath.

“Wow,” he says, very softly. His dick is a lot harder now.

“Go ahead and touch yourself,” Mr. Graves says. “That was really hot the last time, seeing you jerking off in my bed.”

Credence puts his hand around his cock right away. He also puts a finger in his mouth and gets it wet with his spit. He usually does this in the shower and it’s different on his back with a dry hand. It’s not easy at all to get even one finger inside himself. He winces. It was so  _easy_ when Mr. Graves did it. Also, this position really strains Credence’s wrist no matter how he arches his back. 

He hears Mr. Graves swear in the bathroom, but when he looks Credence can’t even see the man.

When Mr. Graves returns, he has the whole string of condoms that Newt gave to Credence. 

Credence is pushed up on his heels with his dick hard in his hand and his own finger inside him. He bites the insides of his cheeks to keep quiet, like he usually does. Mr. Graves looks right at him.

“Holy shit,” the man says.

Credence pulls his finger out of himself and winces at that as well.

“It’s better when you do it,” he says.

“Is it?” Mr. Graves says. His cock is thick between his legs, as though looking at Credence touch himself gets him harder than Credence grinding against his lap did.

“Yes,” Credence says. 

“Probably because I use lube,” Mr. Graves says. “Are you just trying to finger yourself dry?”

“I used spit,” Credence says. 

“That’s pretty much the same,” Mr. Graves tells him. He sets the condoms on the bedside table and picks up the bottle of lubricant with the little plastic top.

“Here,” he says, “give me your hand.”

Credence holds out his hand and Mr. Graves squeezes some lubricant onto the tips of his index and middle fingers. It’s cold and kind of viscous, like shampoo or lotion.

“Try that,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence rubs his thumb against his fingers until the lube feels a bit warmer. He doesn’t know if Mr. Graves means for him to just keep touching himself, but the longer Mr. Graves looks at him the more Credence thinks it wouldn’t be a bad idea. He reaches down and presses just one finger at his hole. It still isn’t as easy as it feels when Mr. Graves does it, but his finger slides into him without anything but tightness. It doesn’t hurt.

“Oh,” Credence says. 

“See?” Mr. Graves. “It’s not me, it’s just the accessories.”

“No,” Credence says. “It’s definitely you.”

Like this, he’s more focused on the strain in his forearm than the feeling inside him. Also, Mr. Graves has thicker fingers. 

“Well,” Mr. Graves says. 

The pop of the cap on lube bottle makes Credence hiss a breath in through his teeth. He watches Mr. Graves pour some into his hand and slick two fingers with his fist, as though he was stroking his cock. 

“Do you mind if I help you?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Please,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves kneels on the bed and reaches between Credence’s legs. His wet finger tips touch Credence’s knuckles and then brush against the edge of his hole. Credence breathes in sharply through his nose. He feels his jaw go tense. His ribs shudder when he exhales. Mr. Graves pushes a finger in alongside Credence’s own, slowly. Credence can feel it in the strangest way — wet and distinct. Mr. Graves presses his finger against Credence’s finger inside him. Both of them fill Credence up in a way that makes his cock twitch in his fist.

Credence touches himself, rubbing the head of his cock with a rough hand. Even that doesn’t feel as good as when Mr. Graves touches him. 

“Can I put your dick in my mouth?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence breathes hard.

“I don’t want to come too soon,” he says.

Mr. Graves raises an eyebrow at him. “Then why are you jerking off, Credence?”

Credence takes his hand off his cock and presses it flat against the bed.

Mr. Graves looks at him and Credence could swear his nostrils flare. 

“You’re… fuck,” he says. “You’re like a fantasy come to life, Credence, I want to make you feel so good.”

As he says that, he presses hard inside of Credence, curving his finger until Credence wants to yell. He doesn’t, though, he bites down hard on nothing. Credence can’t even breathe until after Mr. Graves eases up.

“Kiss me,” Credence says, and Mr. Graves bends over him.

Credence’s mouth is already open when Mr. Graves kisses him. He licks the back of Credence’s teeth and bites at Credence’s lower lip. 

Credence spreads his knees as wide as they’ll go and Mr. Graves fills the space between his thighs. He kisses Credence deeper, but he doesn’t press down heavy against him. Credence wouldn’t mind that, actually, but Mr. Graves holds himself up on one elbow and keeps his hand between Credence’s legs. Credence takes his free hand off the bed and puts it against the back of Mr. Graves’ neck. 

They kiss for so long that the lube starts to get sticky. When Mr. Graves pulls his hand away, Credence finds his finger yanked out alongside Mr. Graves’. He groans against Mr. Graves’ teeth.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Graves says. “Do you want two this time?”

He pulls away from the kiss despite Credence’s grip on him. 

Credence nods his head. He hears the pop of the lube bottle again. He feels Mr. Graves touching him again with two wet fingers. He breathes out all at once when Mr. Graves pushes into him.

Credence has both hands free now. He wipes his hand clean as best he can on Mr. Graves’ sheets, apologizing into the kiss the man gives him. Mr. Graves curves both his fingers now. His fingers really are wider than Credence’s, especially at the knuckles. Credence feels fuller already. Mr. Graves fucks him with his hand, moving his fingers slowly in and out.

Credence puts both hands on Mr. Graves’ back and digs in until he feels his very short fingernails touch Mr. Graves’ skin.

Mr. Graves hisses.

“Credence,” he says.

Credence is breathing hard, but he still manages to answer, “Mr. Graves.”

“Ah — shit, I love that you call me that,” Mr. Graves says.

He’s breathing hard too, but it’s nothing compared to Credence.

“Are you going to call me that when I’ve got my dick in you?” Mr. Graves asks him.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Sir.”

“Jesus,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence loves how little Mr. Graves cares about taking the Lord’s name in vain. He seems to do it when he’s impressed or overwhelmed or just feels like it. It’s awful, really. It’s incredibly disrespectful. Credence scratches Mr. Graves’ back and makes him swear again.

“Do you want a third finger?” Mr. Graves asks. “Is this not enough?”

“Yes,” Credence says. “Please.”

His voice has thinned to a breathy whine. 

Mr. Graves pulls his fingers completely out of Credence’s body, then touches his hole with three fingertips. At first, it’s not that much more. Credence rocks his hips up and feels his cock move against his belly. Then Mr. Graves’ pushes deeper into him and the shape of his three fingers together is so much wider than just two. Credence whines. He doesn’t know if he wants to push against the feeling or pull away. 

“Too much?” Mr. Graves asks, but Credence doesn’t have an answer.

Mr. Graves pulls his hand away slightly, though, and there’s the answer.

“No!” Credence says. It’s almost a shout.

Mr. Graves presses his fingers back in and it hurts a little, a stretch, an ache. Credence breathes through it. It’s not pain at all. 

As he breathes, Credence feels himself relax just a little more. Mr. Graves’ fingers sink into him deeper, then deeper still. He doesn’t even need to curl his fingers much for Credence to feel that pressure inside that goes right to his balls. That’s really the best part. It makes it worth it to feel stretched open and strange. 

“Is that good?” Mr. Graves asks him. 

“Yes,” Credence whines. “Yes.”

Underneath Mr. Graves, he can feel that he’s flushing from his face down to his throat and chest. He’s so, so warm. Mr. Graves continues to kiss him. Credence meets his mouth with teeth and tongue, but he’s sloppy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. Mr. Graves is the only person he’s ever kissed like this and he’s already forgotten how to do it. He can hardly remember how to breathe properly.

Mr. Graves fucks him with just his hand, so deep that Credence can feel the knuckle of his pinky finger pressed against the edge of his hole. It makes him shake a little. He wants more, is the worst thing. He can feel just how deep Mr. Graves reaches inside him. His cock would be thicker. It would fuck Credence deeper.

But he waits. He sucks on Mr. Graves’ tongue when the man kisses him. He whines right into Mr. Graves’ mouth. 

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

He pushes up on his arm and looks down at Credence. 

“Can I fuck you now?” he asks.

“Please,” Credence says. His mouth open, he moans when Mr. Graves presses his fingers deep into him. 

“Would you say it for me?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

But it takes so many breaths for him to form the words.

“Please,” he says again. “Fuck me.”

In another few breaths, Credence adds, “Mr. Graves.”

Mr. Graves slowly pulls his fingers out of Credence’ body and he feels so empty and so wet. Credence tips his head back against the pillow and huffs with frustration.

Mr. Graves uses the bedsheets to wipe his hand.

“Do you want to finger yourself?” he asks.

Credence reaches down and easily pushes two fingers into himself. It still isn’t as good, but it’s something.

“Fuck,” Mr. Graves says. “I didn’t expect… Shit, I’ve got to get a condom on.”

Credence makes himself look. He watches Mr. Graves tear open the little gold foil package and take out the condom. It’s sort of nice to watch him hold his own dick and slide the thing over it. But Credence still thinks it’s a waste of time. He won’t argue, however. He just wants Mr. Graves to hurry up.

Mr. Graves pours more lube into his hand and strokes his cock with it until the latex shines under the light.

“I think you should turn over,” Mr. Graves says.

“Okay,” Credence says. He pulls his fingers out of himself and rolls onto his stomach. Mr. Graves puts a hand on his hips and lifts him up, then grabs the pillow he slept on. That goes under Credence’s hips, right against his dick, while the pillow Credence slept on stays under Credence’s head.

Credence turns his head and tries to look over his shoulder at Mr. Graves. He watches him look down at Credence’s body. He looks so good from this angle, all broad shoulders and broad chest. A shiver runs down Credence’s back when the head of Mr. Graves’ cock touches his hole. 

“Just relax,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m gonna go real slow.”

He rubs the tip of his dick against Credence rather than press into him, teasing him when he feels empty and shaky with arousal. Credence whines at the back of his throat. He arches his back and tilts his hips, trying to push back against Mr. Graves, who is barely even touching him.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Graves says.

He puts a hand on Credence’s back and presses down. 

Credence whines, but he stops trying to move. 

Mr. Graves’ cock pushes against him and, for just a moment, Credence worries it won’t work. It just won’t work at all. He cannot relax. But he inhales; he exhales. He feels Mr. Graves press into him, wider than anything Credence has ever felt.

Credence breathes hard and Mr. Graves continues to push into him. It’s not exactly comfortable. 

Credence turns his face into the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut. He shakes when he exhales. Then, suddenly, Mr. Graves’ cock slides much deeper. It doesn’t hurt, but Credence didn’t expect it. He feels like shouting and he doesn’t know what sort of sound he makes, but thankfully it’s muffled by the pillow.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says. He sounds like he’s a mile away, even though Credence can feel his hands gripping him by the hips. 

Mr. Graves starts to pull out and  _that_ doesn’t feel good. Credence tries to move his hips back to keep Mr. Graves from doing it. But Mr. Graves holds him down. 

Credence lets his frustration out into the pillow. He grabs the sheet under him with both hands, feeling like he could tear it with his bare hands.

When Mr. Graves pushes back into him, his cock sinks even deeper into Credence than before.

He bends over Credence. Neither of them moves too much.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence feels stuffed. It's not the best feeling actually. He wants to move. He wants Mr. Graves to move. He wants more, but also less. He wants, specifically, that pressure and push that makes his dick throb. This isn't it, as full as he is. He just feels pressed down and filled up.

He doesn’t think Mr. Graves is even all the way inside him.

That's almost the worst part.

It's not as good as Credence thought it would be. He shouldn't be so disappointed. But he is.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

He kisses Credence's back between his shoulders. Credence begins to worry that if it’s not as good for him, that it also isn’t as good for Mr. Graves. The man kisses his way up toward Credence’s neck.

“Relax,” Mr. Graves tells him. “Please.”

Credence breathes too shallow and too fast into the fabric of the pillow. Mr. Graves sucks on the skin over the biggest bump in Credence’s neck, the one right above his shoulders. His teeth sink into Credence’s skin hard enough to make him squeak. The bite doesn’t hurt, exactly, so much as make Credence’s dick throb. And that makes him shake, makes Mr. Graves sink just another inch into him, makes him moan. 

Even with his fists clenched tight on the sheets, Credence’s arms shiver.

“That’s it,” Mr. Graves says. He kisses the side of Credence’s throat. He kisses the corner of Credence’s jaw. He kisses Credence’s earlobe. His teeth catch there and he bites Credence again, so lightly. But Credence feels his whole body tense up at that. He goes so tight around Mr. Graves’ cock that it hurts.

Mr. Graves groans right in his ear, but it’s a high-pitched sort of thing. 

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Relax, Credence.”

A shiver runs down his back when Mr. Graves kisses his neck again. He wishes he could kiss Mr. Graves in return.

Credence tries to breathe deeper. He feels his back muscles relax first and the rest of his body follows.

Mr. Graves groans against his throat. This time, it's a deep sound that vibrates through his chest and into Credence's ribs. Mr. Graves presses down against him. His arms are shaking at Credence’s sides.

Slowly and smoothly, Mr. Graves’ cock pushes into him. Credence's eyes go wide at the sensation. It's discomfort at first and only that. It's too much and he feels too full. But under that, finally, is the thing Credence wants.

He gasps and gets part of the pillowcase in his mouth. 

Mr. Graves groans again.

Credence can feel every short, sharp hair above Mr. Graves’ cock. He's pressed so close that Credence feels it along the cleft of his ass and at his tailbone. Mr. Graves’ balls press heavy and warm against the space below Credence's hole. With Mr. Graves’ body draped over him, Credence can feel every hair on Mr. Graves’ chest against his sweaty back. 

“God,” Mr. Graves says. His voice is muffled against Credence’s skin. 

“You're so tight,” he says. “Fuck, that's so cliché. I'm sorry, Credence.”

Credence opens his mouth but all that comes out is a small whine caught at the back of his throat.

Every hitch of his breath feels crushed by the weight and heat of Mr. Graves’ body. His hips press flush to the curve of Credence’s backside and his thighs rest on the back of Credence’s. He feels completely smothered. 

Mr. Graves breathes against his skin. He doesn't move.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Graves asks. 

Credence makes a soft sound that he means to be a word.

“Credence?” Mr. Graves asks.

He leans his weight to one side and touches Credence’s ribs. The very slight shift of Mr. Graves’ cock inside Credence leaves him blinking rapidly. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out except his breath.

“Ah,” he says.

Mr. Graves’ hand moves down his side and over the bump of Credence’s hip bone. He reaches Credence’s thigh and squeezes his flesh in one, large hand.

“Oh,” Credence manages. “I…”

He licks his lips. “You.”

“Me?” Mr. Graves asks.

“You,” Credence moans. 

Mr. Graves tilts his chin up and kisses Credence on the jaw.

“You're in me,” Credence says. He's still panting.

“You're inside me,” he says. He can feel it, solid and just as hot as his body. Maybe hotter. He aches inside from the pressure of Mr. Graves’ cock.

“You're so big,” Credence says. He's amazed.

Mr. Graves pushes his nose against Credence's shoulder and they're so close together that his hair brushes Credence’s lips.

“Holy fuck,” he says. “Credence.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says because he likes how the man says his name just then.

Mr. Graves breathes against Credence’s skin.

“Baby, can I move?” Mr. Graves mumbles against his shoulder. “Can I fuck you?”

Credence nods his head before he can manage a simple “Yes.”

Mr. Graves kisses him with an open mouth, his tongue against Credence’s skin. He’s tasting his sweat, surely. Credence wishes he could taste the salt on Mr. Graves’ tongue. 

But he really can’t find the words to say that when Mr. Graves moves his hips. His cock pulls out only a little. It feels like it’s pulling on Credence’s hole where the skin has been stretched open around Mr. Graves’ dick. Credence whines and presses his hips as best he can back against Mr. Graves. 

Then Mr. Graves pushes into him again and Credence gasps. 

He feels Mr. Graves’ chest shake against his back, as though he’s laughing. But it turns into panting breaths against Credence’s back. 

Mr. Graves doesn’t move much, but it feels like too much. His cock is so deep inside Credence that even the smallest movement only emphasizes that. Credence can feel it. He could swear Mr. Graves is deep enough in him that it should hurt. But it only feels better with every little movement the man makes with his hips. He rocks side to side a little, enough to make Credence’s hips tilt one way and then the other against the pillow beneath him. 

But it’s the small thrusts in and out, once Credence gets used to it, that make his dick ache for more.

“Mr. Graves,” he says. 

“Yes, Credence?” Mr. Graves says. His voice sounds deeper.

Credence’s voice is breathless and thin, a humiliating whine. “Can I —”

He has to stop and breathe.

“Can I kiss you? Please?”

Mr. Graves’ hips press hard against Credence’s ass when he moves. He kisses the corner of Credence’s jaw. Credence tries to turn as much as he can, but Mr. Graves has his chest pinned down against the bed under him. Their mouths meet unevenly. Credence’s lower lip presses against the arch at the top of Mr. Graves’ upper lip.

Credence moans, high-pitched and open-mouthed.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says. He groans against Credence’s chin.

“Yes,” Credence says. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to. He would agree to anything. 

Mr. Graves hisses a breath through his teeth and then his forearms come down hard on the bed on either side of Credence. The man pushes himself up, and the cool air against Credence’s hot skin makes him hiss too. 

From this angle, Credence realizes Mr. Graves can move his hips a lot more. He goes slowly, but Credence still tries to press himself back on Mr. Graves’ dick. He feels best when it’s inside him. 

At least it seems that way until Credence pushes up on his knees slightly and the change in the angle between his body and Mr. Graves’ body makes Credence jerk. He feels shocked by his own pleasure. Desperate, he pushes back against Mr. Graves hard, but it’s not the same.

Mr. Graves’ leans onto one arm and grabs Credence’s right hip. 

“Whoa,” he says. “Oh, fuck.”

“Please,” Credence says. He doesn’t even know if he’s pleading to be kissed or to feel that again.

He feels Mr. Graves pulling him back against him with one hand. When he moves onto his knees, Credence goes with him. But Mr. Graves towers over him and Credence stays bent over, unwilling to move that much.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Mr. Graves says, looking down at him. 

Credence watches his chest rise and fall. The lines of Mr. Graves’ belly shift with every thrust in and out of Credence’s body.

“So fucking gorgeous,” Mr. Graves says.

It takes Credence a very long — embarrassingly long — moment to realize that he can turn onto his shoulder with Mr. Graves no longer holding him down. It’s easier still because he’s already on his knees. 

He does it in one sudden movement, twisting himself in half so that the muscles in his back stretch. He hears a slight crack from his spine, but it feels good. He presses his cheek against his elbow and looks up at Mr. Graves.

“Oh, goddamn,” Mr. Graves says. “You’re getting ahead of me here, Credence.”

Credence has a hand free now and it shakes, but he can reach out and place it against Mr. Graves’ belly right above his cock. He feels the muscles moving under his hand when Mr. Graves thrusts into him.

“Please,” Credence says. “Kiss me.”

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says.

But he doesn't. He moves one leg and then the other, until he's no longer between Credence’s knees. His calf presses to the side of Credence’s leg.

“This might feel kinda weird,” Mr. Graves says. “But tell me if it hurts, even a little, okay?”

Credence nods. He'd ask what Mr. Graves is doing but he knows. He can see it the same as he knew he could lean on his shoulder and look at Mr. Graves. The man leans down over him with his hands on Credence’s hips. His cock slides out of Credence’s body as he's turned. But once Credence is on his side, Mr. Graves is right there. He's close enough for Credence to put his arm around his neck.

Credence leans up on his elbow and turns his face. Mr. Graves’ mouth meets his. 

Credence licks past Mr. Graves’ lips. He presses his mouth hard against Mr. Graves. He breathes into him, through him. It's a mess. Credence tightens his hold on Mr. Graves and moans around the man’s tongue in his mouth.

Mr. Graves doesn't fuck him as deeply like this. He can't really. The angle isn't quite what Credence wants. He feels less. It's easy, though, the way Mr. Graves moves into him.

Too easy, Credence realizes when he bites Mr. Graves lower lip and the man shudders. His dick slips out of Credence completely.

Credence whines, low and from the back of his throat. His dick jerks up against his belly.

“Fuck,” Mr. Graves says. His voice is so close it vibrates through Credence’s teeth.

“I'm sorry,” he says, trying to pull away from Credence.

“No,” Credence says. He holds onto Mr. Graves’ neck.

Mr. Graves kisses him again, a quick press of his lips. 

“You want me to stop?” Mr. Graves asks. The tip of his nose brushes against Credence’s.

“No!” Credence says. It’s not as loud as he wants it to be. He can feel Mr. Graves’ cock, hard and wet, against his skin.

“You want me to keep fucking you?” Mr. Graves asks. He kisses Credence again before he can reply properly, so that Credence ends up speaking into his mouth.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Then you have to let go of me, Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence groans, but he lets go of Mr. Graves’ neck. His head falls back against the pillow and Mr. Graves sits up. The pillow has been flattened under Credence’s hips and his legs ache from being folded for so long. He rolls onto his back and stretches his legs on either side of Mr. Graves’ knees.

The man looks down at him and makes a low whistling sound.

“What?” Credence says. 

Mr. Graves reaches down and puts his hands on the insides of Credence’s thighs. His skin is wet with sweat and sticks to Mr. Graves’ palms when he runs his hands up Credence’s legs. Mr. Graves cups his balls in one hands and strokes Credence’s cock with the other. Credence’s whole body arches into the touch. His ass lifts right off the pillow under him. His back curves. His heels dig into the bed. Credence’s head tips back. He moans and it’s so much, much louder than his voice has been.

“You’re amazing,” Mr. Graves tells him.

His hand moves from Credence’s balls, down and down until he’s pressing into Credence’s hole. It’s so easy for him to push two fingers into him. 

“Please,” Credence whines. He pushes down against Mr. Graves’ fingers, but it doesn’t even compare to having Mr. Graves cock filling him.

Mr. Graves’ hand leaves his cock and Credence shuts his eyes tight in frustration. He could touch himself, but it’s so much better when Mr. Graves does it. He hears the now-familiar sound of the cap on the lube bottle. 

Credence opens his eyes and watches Mr. Graves stroke his cock with his lube-slick hand. He’s between Credence’s thighs. Close enough to touch, Credence realizes. So he does. He presses hit fingertips right to the head of Mr. Graves’ hard dick.

“Oh fuck!” Mr. Graves says. He jerks his hips against Credence’s touch.

Credence can still feel the heat of his body, even though he’s not touching skin directly. It’s fascinating really. And obviously Mr. Graves can still feel him. Credence curves his palm over the head and Mr. Graves pushes against his hand.

Credence looks up slowly, watching the way Mr. Graves breathes. He looks at Credence with wide eyes and his lips slightly parted. His hair is very messed up, with so many dark strands hanging in his face.

It all makes Credence smile. 

He picks up his feet and bends his knees, spreading his legs wider for Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves responds to this by reaching under the bend of Credence’s knees and putting his hands around Credence’s thighs. He pulls him up enough to knock Credence back down onto the bed. His dick bounces off his belly and Credence almost laughs.

Then Mr. Graves leans down and presses his wet cock between Credence’s legs. 

“Please,” he gasps. “Please, Mr. Graves.”

“Please what?” Mr. Graves asks. He takes one hand off Credence’s thigh and Credence can feel him pressing the head of his cock against Credence’s hole again.

Credence’s breath hitches in his chest.

His face gets hot again when he looks Mr. Graves in the eye and thinks of what he should say. It’s what he wants to say. It’s what he  _wants_. 

“Please,” Credence says, “fuck me, Mr. Graves.”

Mr. Graves pushes into him and it’s so much easier this time. Credence breathes out harshly as Mr. Graves’ cock sinks into him. The discomfort has either gone away or he just doesn’t notice it because he wants this. He feels filled up before Mr. Graves is even pressed flush against him. 

And, oh, when he is. Credence puts his legs around Mr. Graves’ waist and holds him as close as he can. Mr. Graves kisses him then, and Credence grabs him by the shoulders. Credence presses his heels into Mr. Graves’ back. He bites Mr. Graves’ tongue as they kiss. 

Mr. Graves thrusts against him, but Credence never lets him pull out too far. He rolls his hips instead, until Credence cries out softly. The muscles in his calf tremble and his foot slips against Mr. Graves’ skin.

That offers Mr. Graves too much leverage. He pulls back. Credence digs his fingers into Mr. Graves’ back. Then the man thrusts back into him hard. His cock seems to reach deeper into Credence than ever before.

Credence shouts, muffling the sound by biting Mr. Graves’ lip as hard as he can.

His dick throbs from it.

He feels wetness on his skin that isn’t sweat. 

Mr. Graves does it again and the feeling is the same, or close enough to make Credence want to shout again. He grabs the back of Mr. Graves’ neck to hold him in place while he kisses him. There’s no way Credence wouldn’t embarrass himself terribly if he couldn’t muffle himself with Mr. Graves tongue.

Mr. Graves takes Credence by the knees and pushes his legs back. Credence’s hips tilt up against Mr. Graves’ body, but he doesn’t fight it. Mr. Graves moves faster now, without Credence clinging to him. 

The sound Mr. Graves makes when Credence’s leg presses back toward his shoulder gets lost against Credence’ lips. He feels the ache in his hips, but it’s nothing. He’s shaking and the sting of Mr. Graves’ skin against his means so much more. 

His leg starts to shake under Mr. Graves’ hand and Credence doesn’t realize it’s from Mr. Graves’ arm shaking until the man tucks Credence’s knee over his shoulder. He presses his hand down on the bed beside Credence. 

Credence can feel Mr. Graves’ back trembling under his hands. 

He sees spots behind his closed eyelids.

His body tenses under Mr. Graves and the man cries out into Credence’s open mouth. There are words and sounds on Credence’s tongue that cannot escape. There’s a low moan caught in his throat.

This is as close as two bodies can get, Credence thinks. This is the best he has ever felt. 

Credence comes hard, like a plane crash or a trainwreck, like dying. He shouts and cannot even hear himself. His come is wet and hot in the space between Mr. Graves’ body and his own.

It seems like an eternity before Credence can stop shivering, and then he realizes he’s holding the back of Mr. Graves’s head and not so much kissing him as breathing into his open mouth.

He lets go and drops his arm down on the bed.

Mr. Graves’ cock is still deep inside him, their bodies pressed tightly together. But neither of them moves.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says. He’s out of breath.

Credence blinks his eyes open.

His heart pounds in his chest. His mind is completely empty. He can’t even think.

Mr. Graves kisses him again, truly kisses him. It’s slow and sweet and Credence closes his eyes again. He sighs. His chest only shudders a little.

When Mr. Graves pulls away, Credence lets him go. He wants to hold him, of course, but he simply doesn’t have the energy. Mr. Graves doesn’t completely remove himself, the way Credence expects. 

He doesn’t pull his dick out — just arranges himself differently against Credence, so that his knees are folded. He lets Credence’s legs relax and his feet slowly sink back onto the bed.

“Can we just —” Mr. Graves starts to say.

“Fuck, Credence, I never want to pull my dick out of you,” he says. He shakes his head and they’re so close that his hair brushes against Credence’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, “that’s crude.”

Credence blinks slowly. He wants to touch Mr. Graves’ face. He wants to run his fingers through his hair. He wants to kiss him. He also doesn’t want to move an inch. 

“Credence?” Mr. Graves says.

Credence takes a deep breath, but then all he manages is another sigh. He hums slightly at the back of his mouth.

Mr. Graves looks at him from very close up.

“Well,” he says. “I’m just not going to move until you shove me off, then.”

Credence doesn’t imagine he’ll do that any time soon. He manages a bit of a smile, though Mr. Graves wouldn’t be able to see it. It’s just for himself, really. 

As time drips slowly past, Credence reaches up and pushes Mr. Graves’ hair off his forehead. He combs his fingers through it, then rests his hand there.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves tells him. “God, yes.”

Credence lies there, Mr. Graves on top of him and inside him and all around him. He lets Mr. Graves kiss him again and again. His lips and the corner of his mouth and his chin and his nose and his cheek. Mr. Graves moves on to Credence’s jaw, his throat. 

The most Credence can really manage is tipping his knees inward so that his thighs rest against Mr. Graves’ hips.

The bed is so soft. Credence thinks he could just fall asleep. Yes, he could absolutely fall asleep with Mr. Graves’ cock still inside him. 

Sadly, he doesn’t get the opportunity.

“If we stay like this any longer, we’re going to be stuck together,” Mr. Graves says. “Sorry, Credence.”

Mr. Graves goes quite slowly. He pushes himself up on one arm and reaches between both of them. He doesn’t actually sit up until he’s pulled out of Credence, and then Credence leans up on his elbows to see. The business of taking a condom off isn’t nearly as easy, apparently, as putting one on. Mr. Graves swears very softly. His thick, but softened cock is wet and it kind of shines in the light.

Credence feels wet all over — with sweat, with lube, with his own semen. 

If he thought he could stand up right now, he wouldn’t mind another shower with Mr. Graves.

He says as much, “Can we take a shower?”

Mr. Graves looks at Credence.

“Together?” he asks.

Credence nods.

“Don’t expect much from me,” Mr. Graves says. “But sure, I think that would be lovely.”

Mr. Grave leans over the edge of the bed to throw away the condom. Credence rolls over and drags himself to that side just to see that there, indeed, is a wastebasket under the bedside table. He hardly noticed it before.

“Come on,” Mr. Graves says.

He gets out of bed and offers both hands to Credence.

His hands are sticky with God knows what, but Credence needs the help to get out of bed. He leans into Mr. Graves’ body when the man puts an arm around him. His knees shake.

“Let me get the water warmed up,” Mr. Graves says. 

When they get inside, Credence leans against the wall of the shower. The stone and tile are cool all around him. He rests his head against it. The shower steams when it’s hot enough. For just a second, Credence watches Mr. Graves duck his head under the water.

“It’s good,” he says, turning around and holding a hand out to Credence.

Credence looks just a little longer, watching the water flow down the lines of Mr. Graves’ arms and his chest. His legs too, long lines covered in hair that turns darker when wet and sticks to the shape of him.

Credence pushes himself back up to standing. He reaches out, wanting to touch Mr. Graves, and water collects in the palm of his hand. It’s hot, but not too hot — just right. Everything feels as close to perfection as Credence thinks his life can possibly get, then Mr. Graves asks him what kind of soap he likes.

“I really do have more body wash than any human needs,” he says. “The bourbon stuff isn’t as weird as you’d think, and I have this cedar-scented stuff that’s ridiculous.”

Credence keeps blinking the water out of his eyes because he wants to look at Mr. Graves’ face.

“Was I good?” he asks. 

Mr. Graves looks him in the eye. There’s water sticking his eyelashes together and little droplets clinging to his skin. 

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says.

Then he says it again, with more force, “Yes.”

He touches Credence’s face. His fingertips rest against Credence’s temple.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s not about that, I think, good or bad. Was it fun? Did you enjoy it? I’ve enjoyed everything we’ve done together.”

“Me too,” Credence says. 

Mr. Graves smiles at him, not lopsided at all. There’s even a flash of his white teeth. Credence smiles back. 

“So, what soap would you like to try this time?” Mr. Graves asks.

“I liked the vanilla,” Credence says. 

“So much that you don’t want to try anything else?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence tells him.

“Well, alright,” Mr. Graves says.

He tells Credence to hold out his hands and, once he’s got the bottle, squeezes a too-generous amount onto his palms. 

“You’re not going to help?” Credence asks.

Mr. Graves looks at him sidelong and Credence ducks his head. He rubs his hands together until the soap begins to foam and then starts with his arms and chest. Mr. Graves does the same with a pale, gold-colored soap that smells like wood and something sugary. It makes Credence’s nose itch. 

He rubs his hands down his belly and over his cock, which is a little tender. He bends over a little to wash the insides of his thighs.

“I know I ought to keep my hands off you,” Mr. Graves says. “But I have to say it’s tempting.”

Credence has no idea what he did to be tempting, but he stands up and looks at Mr. Graves.

“Please,” he says. “I like your hands on me.”

Mr. Graves looks at him and his shoulders dip slightly. 

“If you insist,” Mr. Graves says. 

His hands slide against Credence’s soapy skin. They kiss. Credence presses his body as close to Mr. Graves as he possibly can.

It’s a long, wet moment before Mr. Graves pulls away with a gasp. 

“Oh no,” he says.

“What?” Credence asks. He steps away, concerned. Is it something he did? Is it something he didn’t do?

“I’ve,” Mr. Graves says. He stops and rubs his face with both hands.

Credence’s anxiety feels like it’s winding a spring in his stomach.

“If I keep this up I’m going to put you up against the wall and jerk you off,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence takes a breath and holds it.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he says.

“That’s fair,” Mr. Graves says. “I mean, obviously, I want to, but I’d also like to have breakfast — brunch, I suppose, at this hour. And I should at least drive you home .”

“Tina can come get me,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves just looks at him.

“I’ll drive you home,” he says.

“Alright,” Credence says. 

“I’m going to rinse off,” Mr. Graves tells him. “Then I’m going to find you a bathrobe or something. Then we can have breakfast.”

It seems like a very reasonable plan to Credence, though he really would like Mr. Graves to touch him again.

“And maybe,” Mr. Graves adds, “I could owe a handjob in the shower the next time you come over.”

Credence feels like the floor has tilted under his feet, but he’s still standing. The water in the shower is still hot. Mr. Graves looks at him. He’s only half smiling now.

“If you’d like to come back sometime,” Mr. Graves says.

“Yes,” Credence says, because that’s simple. He crosses his arms in front of him. He bites the insides of his cheeks.

“Yes, I’d like that very much,” he says. But he is already thinking of all the ways it would be inconvenient. He still can’t drive. He doesn’t really have the money for a cab and he knows the bus probably doesn’t come all the way out here, this neighborhood is far too nice. Mr. Graves is probably very busy. 

“Me too,” Mr. Graves says. 

He rubs his hands over his hair and down the rest of him. 

“We can talk about it some more over breakfast,” he says. “I’m going to go find you that robe.”

Mr. Graves has to move around Credence to get to the shower door, and part of Credence wants to reach out and grab him with both hands. Or just touch him, run his fingers over his skin while he’s so close. Instead, Credence steps to the side when Mr. Graves moves.

“Enjoy the hot water,” Mr. Graves tells him.

But it’s really not as good without Mr. Graves there. Credence starts thinking about how wasteful it is and how he’s running up the bill as soon as Mr. Graves’ body isn’t there to distract him. Oh, and his face. Credence loves his face. It’s almost better than his body. He has the most wonderful mouth.

Credence’s dick twitches.

He’s become far too accustomed to masturbating in the shower. 

Before he’s even really hard, though, Mr. Graves taps on the shower door.

Credence turns the water off in a hurry. He’s been under the shower for so long that his fingertips and toes have wrinkled. He feels grateful, and a little flustered, to have one of Mr. Graves’ extremely soft towels. 

The robe that follows — that Mr. Graves helps him into — is just as soft. Credence picks up the collar of it and rubs it against his cheek.

Mr. Graves looks half dressed already, in a white shirt and dark grey pants. 

“So,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets, “breakfast?”

“That would be lovely,” Credence says. “Thank you.”

It’s actually afternoon now, but as Mr. Graves leads him downstairs he tells Credence about how he usually fixes brunch for himself before work.

“A few times a week Seraphina comes over and we go all out,” he says. “Crepes and mimosas and chicken-fried everything. We don't work the most convenient hours for going out to dinner, obviously, so we do this instead. Which is all to say I have a lot of food around the house, what would you like?”

Credence looks around the kitchen in the light and it is, simply put, expansive. The cabinets are bright pine and all the appliances have brushed steel covers. Mr. Graves picks up the glasses that Credence left near the sink and tucks them into the top of a giant dishwasher.

“Thank you again for bringing these down,” he says.

Credence again thinks of everything else he did while wandering around Mr. Graves’ house in the early morning and pulls his robe tighter around him.

“What's a mimosa?” he asks.

“Orange juice and champagne,” Mr. Graves says.

The corner of Credence’s mouth twitches.

“It's not bad, really,” Mr. Graves tells him.

“I don't like champagne,” Credence says.

“That's fine,” Mr. Graves says. “But is there anything you do like to drink?”

“I don't really like alcohol,” Credence says. 

But then he realizes that might be rude, given Mr. Graves’ chosen line of work.

“I'm sorry,” he adds, just in case.

“It's really fine,” Mr. Graves says. “I didn't mean alcohol. Coffee, tea, water, juice — anything.”

“Oh,” Credence says.

“I don't want you to think just because I mix drinks that I'm some kind of lush,” Mr. Graves says. “I like to think I'm reasonable about alcohol. Obviously, I drink, but I wouldn't say it's one of my primary vices.”

Credence wants to ask what Mr. Graves would say his primary vices are, but instead he asks what kind of juice he has.

“Actually,” the man says, “let me check.”

He opens the side of the refrigerator and Credence can see it’s stuffed with food.

“Orange, apple, pomegranate, and pineapple,” Mr. Graves says. “Plus I have dark chocolate almond milk — oh, and hemp milk. I think that's Seraphina’s, but she's not here to defend it.”

“Apple juice would be fine,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves looks over his shoulder and gives Credence another lopsided smile.

“Coming right up,” he says. 

The bottle in Mr. Graves’ hands is glass and the juice itself is much darker than Credence expects. He pours it into a goblet-shaped glass that Credence guesses is usually for some kind of alcohol. 

“Here you go,” Mr. Graves says.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m going to make coffee, you should think about what you want to eat.”

Mr. Graves gestures at a long, wood-topped island. Credence somehow finds a way to sit on a tall, cushioned barstool without his robe falling open. 

The apple juice tastes more like actual apples than any Credence has ever had before. He finishes it while watching Mr. Graves make a single cup of coffee using a large, complicated machine. Mr. Graves looks over and then moves to refill Credence’s glass without saying a word.

“What do you want to eat?” Credence asks.

“Food,” Mr. Graves says. 

Credence frowns at him.

“I mean, if you really want me to pick, Credence, I will, but I'd like to treat you,” he says. 

Mr. Graves doesn't say anything more. He lifts his coffee cup to his mouth and leaves a stripe of coffee-colored foam above his lip. Credence watches him lick it off.

“Treat me?” Credence asks. There has to be more to the sentence.

Mr. Graves sets his coffee down on the counter.

“Do you prefer crepes or pancakes?” Mr. Graves asks him. “French toast? Waffles? I'm not a chef by any means, but I can handle breakfast.”

“Waffles?” Credence says, more as a question than anything. 

“That’s the easiest one, actually,” Mr. Graves tells him. “But I do make really good crepes, just saying.

That’s possible, maybe, but Credence left a secondhand waffle iron in New York. One of many things that he didn’t really own, but had once thought of as fairly indispensable, like a laptop and an efficient public rail system.

“I haven’t had waffles in a long time,” Credence says. 

Mr. Graves looks at him for a moment and then picks up his coffee mug again. 

“Let’s fix that, then,” he says.

Credence can only wonder what’s in most of the other kitchen cabinets after Mr. Graves takes a massive, circular waffle iron out of one of the lower cabinets and then various dry ingredients from three separate upper cabinets. But it’s not his house, so he politely keeps his mouth shut.

Besides, it’s kind of fun watching Mr. Graves walk from one end of his massive kitchen to the other.

“Would you like me to help?” Credence asks, just once.

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Graves tells him. “It wouldn’t be a treat that way.”

“Alright,” Credence says. He’s gotten a bit used to having other people cook for him, living with Queenie and Jacob. But Credence watches Mr. Graves’ back as he separates egg yolks from whites over the kitchen sink and thinks not just that he  _could_ lend a hand, but that he wants to. 

Mr. Graves rolls up his sleeves when he gets to actually mixing ingredients into batter.

“So,” he says, “what would you like to have on these waffles?”

“I don’t know,” Credence says. “What do you usually put on waffles?” 

The waffles he’s used to are small and square and can be eaten plain or even used to make a kind of breakfast sandwich with eggs and meat folded between two. 

“Fruit and whipped cream,” Mr. Graves says. 

“Whipped cream?” Credence repeats. That sounds like a dessert more than a breakfast.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Graves says. He stops whipping egg whites to grin at Credence.

“Anything else?” Mr. Graves asks. “I was thinking of making bacon, just because, but if there’s something you’d like, I might have it.”

Credence’s mind is still trying to reconcile whipped cream and breakfast, but he nods.

“Bacon is fine,” he says.

“Just fine?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Just fine,” Credence tells him.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says.

He goes back to whipping egg whites. He's good at it, as though he does it all the time. Credence has the question on his tongue.

“So what are you doing in Atlanta aside from sleeping on Newt’s couch?” Mr. Graves asks, before Credence can say anything.

“Not much,” Credence admits.

“Are you looking for work?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence looks down at the countertop.

“I'm not really that good a dancer,” he says.

“I disagree,” Mr. Graves says. “But I wasn't offering you a job — unless you want one.”

“No,” Credence says. “I've been doing some things — website stuff, it's not much. I'm hoping to get a state ID or a permit soon, and maybe I'll be able to go to school in a year.”

“So you plan to stay?” Mr. Graves asks.

The egg whites have started to peak, Credence can see. Mr. Graves sets the bowl on the kitchen island and looks at him.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I'm not going back to New York anytime soon.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” Mr. Graves asks. “I mean, you said your family is there.”

“Yes,” Credence says. 

“Do you want to go back?” Mr. Graves asks. “Is it a money issue?”

“No,” Credence says. “I don't want to go back.”

He frowns down at the counter and tries to push his hair out of his eyes.

“You said that when you moved to New York — before that, that your life exploded,” Credence says. “Right?”

“Yeah, that's the word for it,” Mr. Graves says, as he folds egg whites into the batter in fluffy spoonfuls.

“My life exploded too,” Credence says.

“Damn,” Mr. Graves says. “I'm sorry, Credence. I hope it's not —”

Credence looks up and Mr. Graves is looking at him and frowning.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm sure I played a role in that, probably, and that's not what I wanted.”

It takes a few seconds for that to sink in. Mr. Graves doesn't even know what happened, but for some reason in that moment Credence wants to tell him everything. He has nothing to apologize for! Credence made all of his own choices, really, and it was only luck or fate or grace that spared him in the end.

“It's what I wanted,” Credence tells him. “I… I wanted you and I wanted that night and I think all along I wanted to get away from my mother, so I'm not — don't be sorry.”

Mr. Graves looks at him the whole time he speaks.

“Credence,” he says, “I’m glad you got what you wanted, but I’m still sorry things went badly for you, even for a moment, and that anything I did played a part in that.”

Credence’s jaw tenses. 

“Fine,” he says, because he doesn’t care to argue the details. 

“If you’re looking for a place to stay,” Mr. Graves says.

He pauses long enough to open the waffle iron and pour half the batter into it. The thing flips over before it starts cooking. Credence braces himself.

“You know, that’s not a couch,” Mr. Graves adds. “I have a condo that I can never rent — nice location, but just kind of a shitty little place, honestly, small and with a wonderful view of absolutely nothing.”

That’s not what Credence was expecting Mr. Graves to say, really, but it’s easier to refuse.

“I don’t have a car,” he admits. “Or a driver’s license.”

“Well,” Mr. Graves says, “the offer stands.”

The man goes over the refrigerator again and takes out a huge package of bacon that Credence is relieved to see has already been opened and half used up. Mr. Graves looks at the bacon for a second, then puts it back. Then he goes over to the oven and presses some buttons.

“What about school?” Mr. Graves asks. “College, right?”

“Yes,” Credence says. “I really can’t afford out-of-state tuition, so I’m waiting until I meet residency requirements.”

“That’s fair,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence doesn’t know how he’ll afford in-state tuition, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

“What are you using the oven for?” he asks, not wanting to miss the chance.

“Bacon,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s better that way.”

Credence leans his head against his hand and looks at the oven.

“You put it on a baking tray on foil,” Mr. Graves tells him. “It’s amazing.”

“And you don’t keep the baking trays in the oven?” Credence asks.

Mr. Graves gestures behind him at the cabinets. “Don’t have to.”

This makes Credence smile slightly.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says. “I want to make a proposition that might offend you, but I’ve never been on this side of things, so I’m not sure how to do it gracefully.”

Credence steels himself again. 

“But I also kind of want to wait until after we’ve eaten,” he adds. “I’m being kind of a coward about it. Also, I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Credence says. 

The bacon goes into the oven. The waffle iron produces a waffle the size of a dinner plate, which Mr. Graves piles with peach slices and raspberries and strawberries. He pushes the plate in front of Credence.

“This is too much,” Credence says. “I can’t eat all this.”

“But I haven’t even added the whipped cream,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence looks at the plate and then up at Mr. Graves, who is smirking. Credence watches the man go the refrigerator.

“Why are you so good at whipping egg whites?” Credence finally asks. 

Mr. Graves takes a can of whipped cream out of the fridge door and starts shaking it with one hand.

“There’s a really amazing amount of drinks that require egg whites,” he says. “Sours, flips, the White Lady.”

None of that means anything to Credence. 

“I have whipped a lot of egg whites in my life,” Mr. Graves tells him. “It’s a valuable skill.”

The man pops the cap off of the whipped cream and lifts it to his mouth. Credence feels his eyes grow wide with either horror or amazement when Mr. Graves squirts whipped cream directly into his open mouth and then closes his lips around the tip of the can.

Credence watches him swallow.

“Alright, it’s still good,” Mr. Graves says.

He turns to Credence. “You want a shot?”

They stare at each other. Mr. Graves holds the can of whipped cream out. Credence is still holding a fork. His mouth already tastes like fresh peaches.

“You’re even more beautiful when you look a little flustered,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m giving you extra whipped cream.”

Before Credence can refuse, Mr. Graves steps over and reaches across the kitchen island. He makes a spiraling tower of whipped cream on Credence food. Credence could probably tell him not to, but he doesn’t. His face is very warm.

“If you want a taste, though,” Mr. Graves says. He leans on the counter.

“I could kiss you?” Credence guesses.

“Oh, well,” Mr. Graves says, “that works too.”

Credence leans forward and they meet in the middle. Mr. Graves’ tongue tastes like sugar and cream, while Credence’s is still tart. The flavors meet between their mouths and it’s so good that Credence sighs and leans further toward Mr. Graves. The man brushes a hand along Credence’s jaw before he pulls away.

Credence has a bite of fruit and waffle with whipped cream. He expects that it may only be Mr. Graves’ kiss that made the flavors so wonderful, but it's not. The waffle is hot where the cream is cold, both are so soft and meet the tartness of fresh fruit with pure sweetness.

When he’s finished chewing, Credence notices that Mr. Graves is looking at him while he pours the remainder of the batter into the waffle iron.

Once all the food has been cooked, Mr. Graves settles into the space beside Credence. He eats pieces of bacon and hisses at how hot each one is.

“Could I have another kiss?” Mr. Graves asks, after Credence has cleaned the tines of his fork with his mouth.

“Yes,” Credence says. 

This time, Mr. Graves tastes like salt and peppercorns and meat. It makes Credence want a piece of bacon for himself. So he takes one, even though it's too hot. There's fruit and melted whipped cream to soothe his tongue afterwards.

The bacon is good, but the whipped cream and waffle are better.

“What do you want to study?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Computer systems or programming,” Credence says. 

“Really?” Mr. Graves asks.

“It's a good way to get a job,” Credence tells him. “And I like computers.”

“Makes sense,” Mr. Graves says. “I just would've thought you'd be interested in theology or something.”

“No,” Credence says, maybe sharper than he means to.

“I like that you’re not what I expect,” Mr. Graves says.

He leans his elbow on the counter as he eats. Credence watches him, and he's only a little embarrassed that Mr. Graves keeps looking at him. He must know that Credence is staring.

“I'd like to get to know you better,” Mr. Graves says. 

“I’m not very interesting,” Credence says. He takes another bite of food so he won’t say any more.

“Obviously, I disagree,” Mr. Graves says. “But I get the sense you’re not looking for someone to take you to dinner and a movie — and that’s fine, I’m not really, uh, that’s not my lifestyle, I guess.”

Credence can’t help but to narrow his eyes a little.

“What I mean,” Mr. Graves adds, “is that I just work all the time — and the hours are evening through early morning. I’m not interested in changing that. You already know what kind of bar Magic is, at least.”

Credence swallows. 

“Yes,” he says. “I like it.”

Mr. Graves’ eyebrows go up. “You’re welcome there any time.”

“I really don’t have money to spend at bars right now,” Credence says. He looks at his food.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, “I own the place. You don’t have to worry about paying for anything.”

That doesn’t sit well with Credence, but he won’t argue with it. He would like to go to Magic again.

“But I’d like to see you outside of my work,” Mr. Graves tells him. “I keep weird hours, though, I know, and I’m usually busy.”

Credence shrugs so slightly it might be a flinch. 

“I don’t mind,” Credence says. “I don’t really have a schedule right now. Except that I try to feed the chickens at the same time every day.”

“Chickens?” Mr. Graves asks. The look on his face makes Credence smile a little. 

He cuts a piece of waffle with the side of his fork before he begins to explain.

“Newt has chickens,” Credence says. “They live in the backyard and he named them all.”

“Of course he did,” Mr. Graves says. 

He shakes his head and says the word again, “Chickens.”

Credence has just put another bite of food in his mouth when Mr. Graves looks at him and says, “Speaking of cock.”

Credence chokes.

“Shit,” Mr. Graves says.

He touches Credence’s back gently with the flat of his hand, but Credence manages to swallow properly between coughs. His whole body shakes, though, and he feels awful. His face is red and his chest hurts from coughing.

Mr. Graves’ hand stays on his back even when the coughing stops.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I mean, genuinely sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Credence says.

“Nearly killed you for the sake of a dick joke,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m a menace.”

“I can’t disagree at the moment,” Credence tells him.

“I was going to say that if you want something that’s mostly or only physical,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m fine with that. The sex was… incredible, actually. I could do that a couple times a week.”

Credence’s dick reacts to Mr. Graves’ words while his mind is still trying to understand them.

“I doubt I have the time for that,” Mr. Graves says. “But if your schedule is open, then I’d like to know how I could take advantage of that.”

The man looks at Credence when he puts his hand under the counter and tries to rearrange the robe he’s wearing.

“Not that I want to take advantage of you as a person,” Mr. Graves says. “I know things are rather uneven between us as it is, but... Well, Seraphina got her MBA paid for by a guy in Houston. If you were looking for a way to pay that out-of-state tuition.”

Credence looks at Mr. Graves for a very long moment.

The whipped cream has thoroughly melted and Credence’s fork has mostly crushed the fruit to pulpy chunks, but his food is still delicious. It’s all delicious. And apparently Credence  _can_ eat most of a waffle the size of a dinner plate. 

He feels a little sick to his stomach. But also a little too excited that Mr. Graves is touching him. Overall, he just feels uncomfortable in his own skin at that exact moment.

“Thank you,” Credence says. “I don’t think I could accept something like that, but I do want to see you again. I wouldn’t mind seeing you a few times a week.”

Mr. Graves doesn’t say anything right away, but he looks like he wants to. He smiles at Credence and his hand moves from the space between Credence’s shoulders all the way down to the small of his back. Credence shifts slightly into the touch, but then Mr. Graves’ hand disappears.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and then he gets up and walks out of the kitchen.

Credence turns slightly to watch him go.

Mr. Graves doesn’t come back until after Credence has polished off the rest of his waffle. He definitely feels sick from overeating now, which is a very rare thing in his life. He regrets it already. But everything tasted so good, so sweet.

Credence gets up and rinses his plate. He’s not sure what to do with the dishwasher, so he sets his plate and fork beside the sink. He also rinses his glass.

Then he starts to tidy up the various things he thinks he can manage, mixing bowls and utensils and the foil from the bacon.

“Sorry, that took forever,” Mr. Graves says. “I wanted to make sure you had all your things.”

He hands Credence a paper shopping bag which now has Credence’s clothes and boots and phone inside it. Credence even sees the rest of the condoms Newt gave him.

Mr. Graves has his sleeves back down, now with a pair of cufflinks.

“And my card,” he says, holding out a little piece of paper. There’s his name embossed in black ink on the paper as well as a number and email address and the word “proprietor.”

“My cellphone’s on the back,” Mr. Graves tells him, and Credence turns the card over even though he already has Mr. Graves’ number.

“Do you have a pen?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves tells him. “And something to write on?”

Mr. Graves offers Credence a blue ballpoint pen and a long piece of lined paper. Credence sets down the bag full of his things and uses the kitchen island to write on as he puts down his cellphone number — and his email, just in case.

“Here,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves takes his black phone out of his back pocket and adds Credence to his contacts right that moment. It makes Credence feel kind of ridiculous to have written things down.

“Do you want me to ask you to come over?” Mr. Graves asks. “Or do you want to set the pace here?”

“I,” Credence starts to say.

He was going to say, “I don’t care either way,” but instead he says, “I’d like you to ask.”

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says, nodding. “Well, don’t be nervous to offer. I’m busy at night, but you’ve got that open invitation to Magic.”

Credence smiles a little. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They stand there for a moment and Credence wants to get his phone out of the bag and finally add Mr. Graves to his contacts. But he doesn’t.

“You should probably get dressed before I take you home,” Mr. Graves says. “There’s a couple bathrooms on this floor, uh, you didn’t really get the grand tour last night.”

“The grand tour?” Credence asks. “Is that when you’d show me the room with the pole?”

“It’s not actually that grand,” Mr. Graves tells him, “and yes, actually. Sometimes there’s even a show.”

He smirks a little. 

“For now,” Mr. Graves says. “I can at least show you where the downstairs bathrooms are.”

Mr. Graves rests his hand on Credence’s back while he shows him around — from the living room, where Credence took Mr. Graves’ cock in his mouth, to the front door and back to the kitchen.

Credence locks himself in the bathroom nearest the kitchen afterwards and puts on last night’s clothes, including the boots.

He pauses afterwards to turn on his phone, which is full of messages from Tina telling him to stop turning his phone off. He adds Mr. Graves to his contacts before he takes the time to answers Tina’s messages.

“I'll be heading home soon,” he types. “Mr. Graves is driving me.”

Then Credence has to stay there for another full minute because he thinks, yes, even if there's just a couch for him, Tina’s house is his home. Also, it's a very nice couch.

“I'm here and can let you in,” Tina replies. Credence doesn’t ask if she's been home all day or not. It can wait until he gets back.

“Had too much fun last night,” Tina texts him, answering a question Credence hadn’t asked. “Hope you did too.”

Credence splashes cold water on his face and combs his damp hands through his hair afterwards.

“Hello again,” Mr. Graves says. He leans against the wall beside the bathroom, but stands up when Credence shuts the door. He looks up at Credence.

“Thank you for the robe,” Credence says. “And breakfast. And everything.”

“You're welcome,” Mr. Graves says. “Thank you for coming home with me in the first place.”

Credence glances down at his boots. He's not sure if that's really worth gratitude, but he's not impolite about it.

“You're welcome, Mr. Graves.”

“So,” he says. “Ready to go?”

Mr. Graves hangs the bathrobe off of the stairway railing and only takes a moment to get his wallet and keys from upstairs.

“Do you have an address?” he asks. “I've never actually been to any of my dancers’ houses — I think that would be just asking for trouble.”

Credence doesn't ask what that means. He just recites the street address.

Mr. Graves locks his front door behind him, while Credence looks at the two, giant trees in his front yard. If anyone saw Credence walking around the way he's dressed right now in a neighborhood this nice, they'd probably call the cops.

“Can I ask for one last kiss?” Mr. Graves says.

For a moment, Credence is startled out of his thoughts.

“Yes,” he says.

Mr. Graves reaches up to gently pull him down by the back of his neck until their mouths touch. The sun heats the air all around and, though it's bright, the porch is shaded. Credence hears birds chirping and the rustle of wind through leaves. He hears Mr. Graves exhale before he deepens the kiss.

Credence allows himself to be kissed. But his heart is pounding from fear as much as it is enjoyment. Anyone could see them. It terrifies him.

When Mr. Graves lets him go, Credence pulls away by an inch. He could take a step back, but he doesn't. 

“Let's take you home, then,” Mr. Graves says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's still some stories to tell in this alternate universe, but I hope that you enjoyed the happy ending :)
> 
> Thank you everyone who read and commented! Big love!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to yell at me in the comments or on tumblr at jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com


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